Start to Finish
by ficdirectory
Summary: Ever wonder what the profilers are thinking? Here it is, from start to finish.
1. Chapter 1

They know nothing about her, and for right now, this is the way Ashley wants it. She would rather they focus on her dad, if anything. The public part of her life. It makes a great shield for what has gone on since then.

She doesn't tell Hotch or Rossi the truth either, even though they were on the case when she was younger. She prefers to let them think what they want to think. Remember her as the little girl they knew and wanted to protect.

The last thing she wants is for them to find out the truth. About how she lost it after her dad's arrest and conviction. About the guys. About the way she purposely reinvented and misrepresented herself to them. The last thing she wanted to be was herself. The last place she wanted to be was here.

She knew the truth. She let them use her.

She never told a soul.

No way for Garcia or the others to dig up the truth about someone who never existed. 

* * *

Ashley feels a terror so unfamiliar that she does not know what to do. So she tries something, anything, to get the knife at her throat to move. She talks. She begs the father not to make his daughter watch this.

At this moment, all she can think of is her own father, so she talks about him. Tells this guy that she knows how he must be feeling, but nothing works like she hopes it will.

In the end, all her efforts were for nothing anyway. Her apology did nothing but raise his desire to kill. In the car, she falls apart, not caring who is on the other side of the glass. 

* * *

It is no secret that Ashley does not feel a part of the team. It may be a matter of time, or it may be never. She appreciates the effort that Emily makes to draw her in. The time Rossi takes with her. But there is just something about her that doesn't mesh with everyone else.

It gets to her. Gets under her skin. She wishes, for just once in her life, Ashley could be like everyone else. But it looks like that isn't about to happen.

She doesn't get their inside jokes. She is too serious, because she doesn't know how not to be on a job like this. And she feels like Hotch is always watching her, which makes it impossible for her to ever lighten up.

She wishes things were different. She wishes she didn't always feel like she is in JJ's shadow. 


	2. Chapter 2

Elle was never girly.

She ran hard. She beat up the boys who made fun of her. She refused to wear dresses to important events and would not be the daughter she knew her mother wanted her to be, especially after she lost her dad.

He was the only one for whom she would change herself. If he asked, she would agree to wear a pink bow in her hair on picture day, instead of a ponytail that kept her hair out of the way all together. If he asked, she would kiss both her parents good night. If he asked, she would wear a dress. She would be polite. She wouldn't hit back even if she knew another kid deserved it.

But that was so long ago.

Now, she was nobody's little girl. 

* * *

It makes sense to Elle why Eve ate that apple. It's not that she's particularly religious. It's that she's a woman. And as a woman, she is an all or nothing creature. She doesn't half-ass things.

In the academy, she went head-down, full-out at the guys. Didn't matter that she was like, 25% their size. They beat her every time.

But that's not what matters.

What matters is she always, always goes for it. 

* * *

Elle is grateful for her Latina background when the team goes to Mexico to work a case. Mainly because none of the rest of them could attempt it even if they tried, and it made getting facts a lot easier.

It doesn't hurt that it irritates Gideon and Hotch, either, when she and a local cop start carrying on conversations entirely in Spanish and they are unable to understand. It reminds Elle fondly of the days she spent as a child in gymnastics classes, when she taught the other little girls bad words and they said them behind the teacher's back.

She smiles to herself and switches to English. 

* * *

Elle hates going through case files. Sometimes, she secretly slides some into Reid's stack because she knows he won't care. She knows it's all the same to him. He can read faster than anyone she's ever known.

She feels a little guilty though, when she sees him sit down and start flipping through them, his eyebrows furrowed, like he can't believe this case looks completely unfamiliar to him. Like he can't believe he missed something so obvious.

The guilt doesn't stop her, though. She piles those files discreetly on his desk and leaves a couple for herself. And every once in a while she'll sneak a soft drink out of the vending machines into his desk drawer as a thank you.

And always, like a miracle, the files are done when she needs them done.

Always, no one is the wiser. 

* * *

Elle wants a tattoo so much she spends hours sketching out exactly what it will look like. Hours of downtime, of course, which she doesn't have often. She has already tried to ask Reid to draw the design she wants, because she knows he has some artistic talent.

Unfortunately, everything he draws comes back to her looking like an alien, or a dinosaur. Those won't do.

Elle needs something meaningful. Something small. Something private.

She knows Morgan will ask what the point is of getting a tattoo if she isn't going to show it off. He ought to know. He has several.

She bites the cap of her pen, thoughtful.

Maybe Derek has some ideas... 

* * *

Elle is wishing right about now that Morgan would disappear. He seems to always find his way to her when she does not want to be found. When she is dancing with what's-his-name and is well on her way to losing her mind.

Yeah, it's fun to be vacationing with him, but it's funner to be able to forget work and her coworkers all together. So, she does her best to shut it all out except for the music. Except for the feeling of these arms around her. These eyes, when they meet hers, and leave her scorching.

_This_ is why she takes a vacation.

Because she needs one, more than anyone can imagine. 

* * *

Elle comes up screaming. Fighting. But she is no match for the man who grabs her and pins her to the ground.

It doesn't matter that her head is throbbing and swimming with booze. It doesn't matter that it honest-to-God feels like she just went to bed and now, she's sitting in a freezing interrogation room in Jamaica. In not nearly enough clothing.

She is cuffed at the bicep and the wrist and yet Elle can't seem to help the biting remarks she makes to the questions. She has fire in her, too much probably, along with the drinks and the passion and everything that makes Elle unequivocally herself.

"I'm here on _vacation_, man!" she snaps. Anger gives her courage. It comforts her. It takes her mind off the fact that she is scared shitless.

Then, Hotch comes in and offers her his jacket, and Elle can relax.

Just a little. 

* * *

Elle wishes, for the first time in her life, that she had a big fucking case of insomnia. That way she would be able to keep her eyes open when the team is trying to put these pieces together, instead of falling asleep on the damn couch.

She could blame it on her awful Jamaican trip, when she got hauled out of bed in nothing but her skivvies and dragged to an interrogation room for hours. She could blame it on this God-awful case. She could blame it on a lot of things, but the truth is, she cannot keep her eyes open one more minute.

So, Elle nods off, even while knowing she shouldn't. She's no good to her team asleep.

But later, as she prepares to crash and sees the gun leveled in her face, she knows something else.

She is no good to her team dead, either.

-

Elle feels like she's floating on cotton. Then the cotton invades her mouth. Then there's a tightness in her chest and a familiar hand in her own.

"I'm here."

Gideon.

She is so woozy that she appreciates his being there. She can't remember, for a few seconds, that it was Gideon who told JJ to hold the press conference. It was Gideon who broke the rules. Gideon's decision that ultimately got her shot.

There is a beeping that increases as she remembers reaching for her gun. She almost had it, when the shot cracked through the air. She remembers him reaching inside her wound. She remembers being terrified.

Somehow, she remembers finding her phone. Dialing 911. Telling them, she's been shot.

And then?

Then there was nothing.

And now there's all this damn cotton in her head. In her mouth. All around her.

But it is not soft.

And she does not trust the hand she holds. 

* * *

Elle took a taxi into work. She doesn't want anyone knowing. Just like she doesn't want anyone knowing that she strong-armed Reid to get information out of him about what case they are working, so she can come in, too. She's supposed to be off, but she can't stand sitting on her ass for one more minute. Especially in the house where that son-of-a-bitch shot her.

Hotch relegates her to pansy-ass status and it pisses her off. So she makes a way to show up at an arrest. When he calls her out on it, she blames Reid.

Reid denies it.

Hotch believes him.

When will he believe her?

When will _she_ believe herself? 

* * *

Elle has tried all damn day to get the old feeling back when she thinks of her team. But so far, all she can access is betrayal, irritation and anger. It isn't the same. She wishes it was, but it just isn't.

So, she focuses on the case instead. She does her job.

She falls asleep on the jet. Dreams of pain as vivid as the color red. Of an intense aloneness that she is not used to.

It's not the same as it used to be. It's not even close. But it's all she's got at the moment. 

* * *

By the time Elle pulls the gun, she is convinced there is no such thing as innocence.

How can some asshole shoot her in her own home and then be a coward and blow himself up, otherwise? He ruined her life and got off with nothing. And now she has been left destroyed. She knows she looks like a bitch. And she feels like a non-member of her own team.

So, like she was saying, by the time she pulls the gun, it doesn't matter. She doesn't give a shit, and she is convinced she won't be able to let this go otherwise.

Anybody can do anything they want anyway, right?

No consequences. 

* * *

There is no way in hell Elle is going to a damn psych eval so that some shrink can tell her how crazy getting shot has made her. She has become surly at work and doesn't really give a rat's ass.

Her team doesn't have her back. Hotch proved that. She knows this is it. She knows and it sort of makes her sad. Because she loved these people once. Trusted them once. And now, all that registers about them is how they weren't there when she needed them.

Somewhere, in the completely irrational part of Elle's brain, she secretly feels like they knew. How could they not have known?

She feels set up. Betrayed. Hurt beyond what time or an evaluation can fix. 

* * *

Elle somehow feels like less of a woman without her badge and gun, but she convinces herself she is fine with that. She can't trust her team. That much is clear. What else did they expect her to do when they used her as bait for another creep? She wasn't about to just stand there and take it.

She stops by the cemetery but does not speak to her father. She just lies down on the ground and wills herself to feel a connection.

The truth, of course, is that there is nothing.

She has no one. 

* * *

Elle never shows anyone her scars. They are private. Personal. Roadmaps tracing her own private hell of home invasion, victimization and recovery.

But what _is_ recovery when you can't meet your own reflection in the mirror in the morning? When you lose your job? When you have no one? And when you personally sabotage any potential relationships that come your way, because you don't want them getting too close...seeing all the ways you're flawed.

She buttons today's blouse, barely noting its color - only registering the vivid red line that creeps up her chest. She hates that she now buttons up higher than usual. That she can't wear anything that shows off what she's got to show off.

This has ruined her.

She does not see herself.

Only her scars. 


	3. Chapter 3

Jason is sitting in the car when Elle comments on the birds.

He can identify them without a second thought. Then, everything comes together. He realizes who the unsub is that they are searching for. Where he works. How he gets his victims.

In no time, he has an address, and he is advancing on the house. He goes in the back door and finds a baby in his highchair, crying.

"Mama! Get me out!"

Carefully, Jason walks, his gun drawn, his senses tuned.

But he hesitates for just a second, kissing the baby on the crown of his head. Because sometimes, things just take priority.

Sometimes a child needing a kiss is just as pressing as a woman needing rescue.

He walks into the house further, inadvertently alerting their unsub by stepping on a creaking floorboard.

But the baby's mother is still alive and Jason wants to make sure it stays that way, so he engages the man. Tells him what Jason knows he needs to hear. That he'll be famous. That they'll study him for years. If only he'll let the woman go.

He does.

Afterward, Jason excuses himself. He brings the baby to his mother, and takes an extra second to watch them together.

They are okay. 

* * *

Jason has a rule. It is to never turn your back to the door. It was born out of necessity.

It makes the rest of the team edgy - seeing him back after such severe PTSD - but Jason doesn't let it get to him. He's here to do a job. After they've been together a while, they are used to his idiosyncrasies. But no one is ready for what he does when they're searching for a missing twin.

He lets the phone ring, when the captor is calling. When he does pick it up, he says it's the wrong number. He pushes and pushes this unsub until by the time Jason takes the call, he insists the girl is dead.

He knows what this looks like to the rest of them. Heartless. He knows how they will internalize this person's version of the truth about them in different ways. But the bottom line is, they need to trust each other.

They need to trust him.

And they do. 

* * *

Gideon doesn't often turn to the bottle. But sometimes, it's too tempting to refuse. He doesn't have a problem. He would just prefer to have a clear head. Prefer to be in control rather than out of control. It makes sense to hold onto what control there is, rather than tossing it to the wind.

That being said, sometimes he just has to crack open a cold one. Sometimes, he has to, because otherwise, he'll go crazy with the stress of his job. The stress of his life. The stress of his son never calling. The stress of wondering where he is and if he is okay.

Because even after twenty-five years, your children are still your children.

Because even after twenty-five years, you never stop worrying about them.

So he calls the voice mail just to hear his son's voice. Just to reassure himself of the truth he does not know. 

* * *

Jason looks on, amused at what's happening around the table at the Chinese restaurant. First, nobody seems to be able to talk about anything outside of work. Then, of course, there's Spencer, who, for all his brilliance can't seem to master the coordination to use chopsticks.

"Can I get a fork, perhaps?" he asks when food flies for the second or third time. And then, at all the looks, he insists, "It's like trying to forge for dinner with a pair of number two pencils!"

There is talking, and out of the corner of Jason's eye, he watches, as JJ takes Reid's chopsticks and lashes them together with a rubber band.

He smiles. 

* * *

There is only so much agony a person can endure. Jason knows this. That's why he brings in the Chaplin films. That's why he ends this case on a good note, so they are not thinking of the horror for once, but of the humor.

He sits back. He laughs. He watches JJ throw popcorn. Watches how they all sit near one another, and is amazed that after everything they see day in and day out, they would still prefer to sit close beside one another, rather than with feet of space between them.

Jason treasures this time. He knows it is fleeting.

So he does all he can to make it last. 

* * *

Gideon hates guessing games. He likes things straightforward. He doesn't like to wonder what someone is thinking. Because if he guessed wrong, then what? If he's with a woman, inevitably, she'll hold it against him. It will come up in an argument months from now. He wishes women came with a manual. Or signs on their forehead explaining their complicated emotions, and what the hell they want from him.

That's why he's just enjoying his time alone at his cabin. Well, he's not exactly alone. He has company. They know each other well. There is no guesswork.

He cooks dinner. They dance. Everything is perfect.

Then, the head arrives. 

* * *

Jason's always been hands-on. That's part of the reason he chose the job he chose. Sitting behind a desk is okay, but not nearly as satisfying as handing a missing child back to a frantic mother. Rescuing a kidnapping victim. Bringing someone - anyone - in alive.

Even with all of its pitfalls, Jason would not trade this career. He would not trade the people he has the pleasure to work with. They are the best in the field. They are a dream. Of course, there's tension at times. But what family doesn't have tension?

Some of Jason's fondest memories are just spending time with them. Even Prentiss - this new girl who came out of virtually nowhere - is pleasant and fiery and isn't afraid to say what she thinks.

Plus, she plays chess. 

* * *

Jason is keenly aware that teams like his are not a given. Anybody could get a group of people who did their jobs but his team genuinely liked spending time with each other. This is why it's never a hardship coming to work.

Because he knows he'll always see Spencer's eyes light up as he figures out some aspect of a case that none of the rest of them have been able to crack. That JJ will keep a cool head in the midst of the press firestorm. That the new girl Prentiss, has more than just an ear for languages. She is proficient at understanding human beings. That Hotch will calmly steer things in the right direction. That Derek's passion will never be too much, because it means he cares.

And at the end of the day, they might go out for a drink, to celebrate. Or go out for a meal, to commiserate. 

* * *

Gideon isn't able to focus or do anything productive while Spencer is gone. It's like he literally disappears into thin air. Now, he's nowhere.

He connects in ways he can. Talks to him via webcam, hoping that he'll see it. Hoping Spencer will believe what Gideon tells him. That he's strong. That this will not break him.

But deep down, Gideon isn't sure of anything. He paces the bathroom, feeling crazed and tired and like he is losing all hope.

He isn't calm until they find Spencer, and even then, Gideon isn't stupid enough to believe that he has come out of this unscathed. Spencer carries ghosts now where there were none before. 

* * *

Gideon doesn't care about the money. Or at least, this is what he tells himself. That he would do this job for free.

The truth of that, however, is that of course he wouldn't. Who would? It would be insane. To torture himself without even the promise of a paycheck at the end of it?

This isn't to say that he doesn't care. He does. Deeply. He checks in with former victims. The ones they brought in safely. Not often. Not enough to disrupt their lives. Just once after the fact, to check in and say he is glad they're doing well.

He is glad they're doing well.

The last thing he expects though, is for Frank to steal from him, pose as him, and threaten the lives of all the people he's come to think of as family.

Rebecca Bryant. Tracey Belle. And others...so many others...

He is not sure he can keep doing this job.

Isn't sure if there's a payoff that would ever be big enough to keep him here after this. 

* * *

To find Sarah's killer is like chasing a little pin prick of light that is constantly moving. Constantly changing. Constantly deceptive. Jason does not know what to do. He doesn't think of the possible threat to himself. He does not care, frankly.

The person who means the most to him is dead. His home, the last place he has to call his own, has been permanently altered by this darkness.

Jason builds high walls around his personal life on purpose.

But sometimes, even then, it does not matter. 

* * *

If there is an optimistic side to this, Gideon does not want to know it. He wants facts. He wants answers.

This is why he sits down with Garcia - the one bright spot in the BAU - in the middle of a museum and together, they try to piece things together.

It's not that Jason's negative, per se, he just doesn't have it in him anymore to keep coming back for more and more horror. Now that Sarah's gone, he is sure this is it for him. There is nothing else. He's tried coming in, but Hotch is insisting he keep a low profile until they can nail Frank to the wall.

This is a nightmare.

Jason wishes it would end. 

* * *

Gideon was ready to retire years ago. But he wasn't ready to leave this job. These people. It wasn't until he couldn't fake it - couldn't hide it - that he couldn't deny his need to stop.

He loved helping people, but hated what it was doing to him. He hated that he could not sleep at night. Could not have peace about anything. Felt that everywhere he once held sacred was being invaded by the outside.

In the end, he just left. Or so he told himself.

It wasn't quite like that.

Because there was one person he made sure to connect with.

He left Spencer a note, explaining. Even though he knew it would not be enough. 

* * *

There are things Jason is certain of:

He will never lose his faith. He will never lose himself. He will never forget.

He lives on the road now. He finds he simply cannot set down roots. It is too hard, after so many years. After everywhere he dared call home was infiltrated by the darkness.

Sometimes he feels guilty about leaving. But he always feels guilty about not saving them. Sarah, in particular. She meant the most to him. It still hurts in his chest when he thinks of her. When he thinks about the fact that if he hadn't spent precious minutes picking out the damn button mums, she might still be alive.

There is truth somewhere, but Jason hasn't found it yet. There is peace, too, Jason is sure.

He just has to keep looking. 

* * *

Gideon is somewhere in Montana when he hears about the anthrax case. He looks into it, and realizes that his team is right in the middle of the case. Working it. At risk.

Of course they are.

He knows, too, that they had to have taken a round of medication beforehand, but even that will not guarantee a person protection from as virulent a strain of disease as this was. People grew alarming black lesions, they lungs bled. They developed aphasia. Then, they died.

He is kept up to date by a great many things by Garcia, the technical analyst that he still is fond of. She is the one who gives him the head's up.

That Reid's got the anthrax.

It's bad.

Garcia just recorded a message from him to his mother.

When he arrives at the hospital and watches from a distance - when he sees Reid sitting up in bed and eating Jell-O - Gideon breathes a sigh of relief. Then, he slips away unnoticed.

It's hard to be there, in the thick of things.

And sometimes, it's harder still to be away.


	4. Chapter 4

Hotch isn't really known for his agility. Sure, he can run. He's honed that skill since he was a child, when it was a necessity for his survival.

It's Haley who's coordinated. When she wraps herself around him, his eyes widen in shock. She is like a climbing vine. Strong, lithe, thin. Beautiful.

"I want a baby..." she breathes.

And he doesn't dare say what he is thinking:

_I want you._

He's pretty sure that would be the wrong answer at a time like this.

She leans in, kisses him, and his mouth is on fire. 

* * *

Looking back, it's like this was destined. Not the great destiny where everyone lives happily ever after, but the kind where something is destined to fail. In this case, it was his marriage.

He knows Haley is cheating on him. He doesn't ask because he doesn't want it confirmed. If he says he's stayed faithful, she'll accuse him of cheating on her with his job. Which, would be true, if his job were a woman, but it isn't.

Still, Aaron knows, she would be right about one thing. When it comes down to choosing his family or his work, for some reason, his work always takes priority. For him, it's an easy choice. In his family, no one is at risk.

But with 20/20 hindsight, Aaron can see the truth:

In his family, everyone is at risk. 

* * *

It's a recurring nightmare Haley used to have, that Aaron has somehow inherited. That Jack is taken. That they never find him.

The case they're working doesn't help. A 6-year-old has gone missing in a shopping mall a week after another girl was found dead. That girl was a stranger-abduction. Aaron isn't so sure about this one.

From the first, something seems off, though he can't put his finger on what exactly.

By the time he pulls the girl out of the storage locker she's been trapped in, barely conscious...by the time Aaron has done CPR on her...by the time she takes a breath and coughs...Aaron is shaking. This was not a stranger, but the child's aunt. The uncle was molesting her.

He cannot shake the feeling of that tiny, weightless body in his arms. Before he goes home, he stops and wakes up Haley.

"Can I see him? Just for a minute?"

In Jack's room, Aaron breathes a sigh of relief.

His son is here. He's okay.

Maybe, he'll be able to sleep tonight, knowing this much is true. 

* * *

Hotch pulls back the paper sheet that covers Kate's face.

There's a man in here, a tech, eating a Twizzler while he mops up her blood. It makes Hotch's stomach roll. The other says he is sorry. They did everything they could.

He cannot believe it is like this. That he is standing here, with one ear destroyed, and she is lying here, dead. He knows somewhere deep inside that this scenario could have easily been reversed, and he swallows.

Grasping her hand, he squeezes it gently. 

* * *

Hotch would think later, he was grateful for the drink he took before he realized he wasn't alone. Before he realized The Reaper was in the house with him.

He keeps his features schooled for calm, even as he knows that this isn't going to end well. His heart is pounding. He's going to die today. What will Haley say? Will Jack remember him?

But Hotch doesn't let The Reaper see any of this. Instead, he puts on a mask of his own. He pretends he is prepared for this.

In reality, he isn't at all.

As the knife is driven into him, Hotch gasps, and the thought that travels through his head is strange:

He wishes he had taken more than one drink. 

* * *

Hotch has gone a little overboard in searching for The Reaper. He knows this. It's what he's been going for all along. He wants to appear overwhelmed. It's only a matter of time before he will step down, out of necessity. Because he needs The Reaper to believe that the pressure is getting to him. That he can't handle the job.

All along, though, Hotch will keep tabs. He'll be involved in the cases they work. And he will never stop looking for who he is looking for. He'll never stop, because he promised Haley and he wants Jack to be able to come home.

He wants to be able to get on with his life.

That's not going to happen unless Hotch does everything in his power. Unless he does everything right. 

* * *

Hotch can't see anything but The Reaper. Can't hear anything but the blood rushing in his ears. He sees Haley in his mind's eye. Jack. He hears the promise made while Hotch was being attacked.

"I'm gonna find that little bastard son of yours..."

He punches again. And again. And again. The anger. The hurt. The fear. The protective instincts. The everything flowing through Hotch's veins lets him know that he cannot stop.

And then he has to. Derek has him from behind and is holding him back.

...And just like that, Hotch has nothing. He is empty. His mind is full of smoke and burning embers where his memories of Haley used to be. In his head are the echoes of his promises to Haley:

"I'll spend the rest of my life making this up to you..."

Time runs together. Somehow, his is kneeling over Haley. Cradling her. Embracing her.

Apologizing. 

* * *

It's beautiful when they wake and bury Haley.

It is beautiful, but Aaron is on autopilot, picking out a suit and tie for Jack. Trying to explain death to his four-year-old son while he got ready for his ex-wife's funeral is never something Aaron thought he would have to do.

"You know what happened to Mommy, right?"

"Yeah. George got her."

"Right. So people are going to be sad and crying today. Because they miss Mommy. What made Mommy so special? Her smiles and love and happiness? That's somewhere else now."

"Where?" Jack is tense all of a sudden.

Aaron pauses. "I don't know," he admits. "But it's somewhere safe. No bad guys are allowed." He knows he has said the right thing when Jack relaxes.

"We're going to be going to church and listen to a man talk about Mommy. There's going to be a box..." Aaron's throat swells and he swallows against the emotion. "There's going to be a box," he breathes. "A special box for Mommy's body. And after church, we're going to a special place outside to put the box in the ground."

"Okay," Jack says, though he clearly doesn't understand.

There is a pause while Aaron ties Jack's tie, the same way Haley tied Aaron's time and time again.

"Is it like Peter Pan?" he asks, wonderment and sadness shining in his eyes.

"What?"

"Is she like a treasure?" 

* * *

Hotch is used to being alone. But not like this. This hurts. This is like a wound opened and reopened a thousand times. It is worse than when Haley and Jack went into Witness Protection, because now, Haley is just gone.

At night, he thinks of her. Wonders about things he doesn't have any business wondering about. Spiritual things. He wonders where she is. If he'll be able to join her. If it's true, what JJ said… If one day he'll be able to remember her without this horrible ache inside.

He wonders if he'll be able to do this by himself. Raise Jack the way he promised her he would…but at the same time, Hotch knows he will.

He has no other choice. He loves Jack too much to do anything else. 

* * *

When Aaron looks in the mirror, he does not see himself.

But when he looks at Jack, it's like looking in a mirror.

Physically, they could have been twins except that Aaron grew up with dark hair, and Jack inherited Haley's. And of course, personality-wise, he is all Haley, with his energy and sense of humor and resilience.

Though it hurts to know she will not be here to see Jack turn five or six or any other age, it is a comfort that he is here. Jack was their gift to each other, Aaron knows. And he means to raise him right, and love him fiercely. 

* * *

When someone dies, your mind alters. Aaron is sure of it. It happened to him. After losing Haley, all he can think of is her in the best possible light. He doesn't remember all the things she said or did that raised his blood pressure.

He remembers the amazing mother she was to Jack. The vacations. All the firsts they shared. None of the hard times.

They aren't necessarily lies, Aaron knows. They are just what he really needs to believe, in order to move forward. 

* * *

When Jack wakes up screaming, Aaron is at his side in a minute.

It's the worst because there is absolutely nothing Aaron can do. Jack never wakes up. He can never be soothed. And he never remembers the nightmares in the morning. All Aaron can do is try not to make it worse. He knows better than to try and touch him because Jack screams like he's being tortured. He writhes and cries and tries to fight.

So, Aaron sits quietly nearby. Just in case Jack wakes up and needs him.

"No!" Jack screams, and Aaron comes a little closer. "Don't...do...it..." He is sobbing now, his breath hitching.

Aaron bows his head, swallowing back his own tears.

"I know," he whispers.

* * *

Aaron and Haley might not have agreed on many things, but they were committed about how they wanted Jack raised. They had even made a list, around the same time they were going through baby name books, contemplating calling their son Gideon.

He still had the list in his head, and now that Jack was bigger, number one was constantly circling in Aaron's mind.

_1. Discipline: Timeouts. Privileges revoked. Grounding._

They both had been determined not to raise Jack in fear of either one of them. Determined not to raise a hand to him, ever. Aaron wanted his son to grow up knowing he could trust his dad, not living in fear of him, like Aaron had done with his own father.

So, when Jack screams, "I hate you!" and sweeps a pile of papers off the table, Aaron takes him by the hand and calmly walks him to the corner. It's not always that simple. There are times when Aaron has to take deep breaths. Count to ten. Remind himself of his promise to Haley, so his own temper won't show.

"Four minutes," he says matter-of-factly, and turns his back.

This whole procedure is easier said than done. He has taken to watching parenting shows from time to time just to see what actually works. He never counted on being solely responsible for Jack - in fact - Aaron was sure he would be the absentee parent. So, he watches and takes notes and is consistent, to the point that now, Jack stays where he's put.

When the four minutes are up, Aaron approaches his son again.

"I put you on timeout because-"

"Because we don't say hate," Jack replied certainly. His eyes still bright with tears. "I know."

"That's right. We don't."

"Did Mommy say that's the rules?"

"Yes," Aaron nodded, and his heart squeezed uncomfortably. Jack was already losing pieces of his mother, and she hadn't been gone long at all. "Mommy and Daddy both decided those are the rules."

"Okay," Jack sighed.

"What are you going to say next time you don't want to do something?" he asked, after the apology, the hug and the kiss that were mandatory of Jack after a timeout.

"Say, 'No, thank you.'"

"That's right. Good job. Now let's go clean up those papers." 

* * *

"Daddy! Come find me! I'm ready!"

Aaron sighs and gets up from his desk. Jack is not like other children who fall asleep if you stop looking for them. Jack will always wait to be found.

And Aaron will never stop looking.

His breath hitches, walking through this quiet place. It reminds him, a little too much, of the last time he searched for someone. Of the warped game of Hide and Seek that ended with Haley dead on the floor of their bedroom. Aaron never spoke of this, but he always, always felt as though she was staring at him.

He takes a steadying breath and tamps down on the urge to pull his gun.

Jack is fine, he reminds himself.

"Whistle while you work! Mm-mm-mm-mm-mm-mm-mmmmmmmm!" Jack sings to himself, humming because he can't whistle. "Daddy, did you hear that? Can you find me yet?"

Aaron smiles to himself, in spite of all the horror his mind insists on reliving.

Then, he lifts Jack's covers, and finds his son just where he should be. 

* * *

"Jack. Honey. Daddy will be back, okay? I promise," Aaron says, trying to peel his son off from his leg.

"Don't go!" he sobs.

"I'm sorry. I _have_ to."

"No you don't! You can stay home so why _don't_ you? You're a grown-up! You can do whatever you want!"

Resolutely, Aaron bends down and picks Jack up so he can look him in the eye. "Listen to me. I have to work. I wish I didn't, but I do. Jessica will take good care of you. I _am_ coming back. I love you."

Aaron gives Jack a kiss and deposits him with his aunt.

Sighing he walks out the door.

Leaving never gets any easier for _him_ either. 

* * *

Jack is playing when he sees the pretty floating crumbs in the sunlight. They are kind of special. They make him happy and they make him sneeze.

His daddy says dust is not special, but Jack isn't so sure. He remembers picking dandelions one time for Mommy. Daddy said, "Don't bring her weeds," but Mommy had taken them, smelled them and said she loved them so, so much.

This is why he is pretty sure his mommy would think dust is special, too. 

* * *

"I don't know how to do this thing, Dad!" Jack insists, closer to tears than Aaron wants him to be.

"Buddy, you don't have to be upset. It's not a big deal, okay? I promise. What color is this?" he asks, holding up the closest item, his badge.

"Shiny..." Jack pouts.

"Okay. Bad example. Look, all you have to do is find pictures of things that are red, and cut them out, okay?"

"I hate red..."

"You know something, it's not my favorite color either, but this is what your teacher asked you to do."

Jack heaves a sigh, and then digs in his pocket and pulls out a picture of Haley.

"Her sweater's red..." he whispers. "But I'm not cutting that out because it's Mom and that's not nice."

Aaron closes his eyes. "Not _real_ pictures, Jack. Just out of magazines."

"But you don't got any magazines..." Jack protests and Aaron knows he is right. Haley had all the subscriptions: Good Housekeeping, Reader's Digest, People, Parenting, even Dance Spirit, for reasons that still eluded Aaron.

"You're right. Hold on."

Aaron gets on the phone and punches a button. He feels ridiculous and inadequate, but deep down, he knows she won't mind. She is not the only mother Aaron knows. But she is the only one he trusts, regarding anything with Jack.

"JJ? It's Hotch. Do you have any magazines?" 

* * *

Hotch keeps seven kinds of tea on hand.

He isn't a tea-drinker. They were Haley's.

The gingerbread spice. The sugar cookie. The honey vanilla chamomile. The apple cinnamon, the Echinacea complete care, the mint, and the blueberry. They are all kept safely in the corner cabinet, where he can see them. He never drinks them. He doesn't know why, of all things, he insisted on keeping this, from the house.

But he did.

It means something.

It means she was here once.

It means he wishes she were here again.

Sometimes, it means, he feels her close by.

And when the teas mysteriously become rearranged, Hotch prefers to believe it's Haley, just keeping him on his toes.


	5. Chapter 5

JJ is nervous as hell walking into that cage where Jacob Dawes is playing cards with Hotch, but she'll never show it.

As expected, he gets all hot and bothered by the sight of a living breathing, blonde female in his proximity. He asks her name, and she gives him a look like he is scum on her shoe, which, let's face it, he is.

"My friends call me JJ..." she says. She tries for sexy. For badass. She hopes she doesn't sound as petrified as she feels.

When he tries to call her by her initials, she will not allow it. "_You_ can call me Jennifer."

She plays cards with him and Hotch. She deals. He makes a sickening request that if he wins, he gets to smell her hair. She tells Hotch it's fine, but she prays to God that Hotch has a plan.

When Dawes loses, and voices his disappointment, she narrows her eyes at him. She lets the sarcasm, bitterness, hatred, disgust...all of it, seep out.

And when she leaves and vomits, she still considers it a victory. 

* * *

JJ shakes.

She's been in this damn barn for too long with dead dogs and a bleeding wound and she has no idea where the hell Spencer is and she is scared. Too scared to think. Too scared to question her gut when she hears movement in the dark.

"FBI! Don't move!"

She hears their voices - familiar, safe - yet she can't bring herself to lower her weapon. Not until they come close enough for her to see for herself.

"I had to kill them..." she says, looking toward the prone bodies of the animals.

Morgan and Prentiss. It takes that long to put names to their faces in the midst of all the stress. They reassure her. They ask about Reid, but she has no idea where he is, only that when it counted, she was alone.

She is sick inside. Her arm is throbbing. She sits in the back of the ambulance while a tech shines a light in her eyes.

"Good thing you're a skilled shot," the tech says, and JJ looks down at her wrapped arm.

"Obviously not skilled enough or I wouldn't have let them get close to me..." she snaps and then overhears Prentiss and Morgan talking about the cornfield. How somebody got dragged.

Her heart plummets.

"You can't find Reid?" she asks. But she knows the answer before they speak a word. 

* * *

JJ sees the dogs and reaches for her gun.

They growl. They're ready.

She isn't and she knows it.

"JJ! JJ, it's just me!" Emily says, her hands up.

Just like that, the dogs are gone, and all she is left with is her guilt. She has tried to talk to them about this, but none of them is willing to say aloud what she already knows.

She and Reid should have stayed together.

"I'm sorry. You scared me," she says, smiling automatically, to cover her raw nerves.

"_I'm_ sorry," Emily placates, in a tone that suggests she knows just how crazy JJ is right now. Emily talked the same way to her in the barn. JJ can't hold the anger, though. There's too much fear.

They talk. JJ isn't even sure what about because it's out of her head the minute the words are spoken and answered.

"How come none of this gets to you?" JJ asks and prays she'll get an answer. A real one.

"I...guess I compartmentalize better than most people." 

* * *

JJ stands under the stream of water and tries to stop shaking. It has been days and finally, finally she can shower off the disgusting feeling she's lived with since those damn dogs tried to eat her alive. There were other options of course. She could have showered at Hankel's but she would rather have done almost anything else. It was bad enough staring at her own reflection in his bathroom mirror.

Her arm throbs and she lets the tears run down her face with the water. No one checks on her because she is alone. JJ thinks about this.

She is alone. And so is Spencer, probably. She'd seen him in the hospital, weak and pale and all by himself.

So JJ makes a decision and steps out. She'll visit him. And they'll have each other. 

* * *

JJ watches the sky when it rains. She watches the way the water runs down the panes of glass. She wonders why they're called panes. She wonders if it is because of the sound they make when they are broken.

She told Garcia she didn't even blink shooting that bastard.

That was true.

It is true. She would do it again and she knows it.

In her mind's eye she pictures the glass door of the BAU shattering as he turns.

Definitely, she thinks as she takes a sip of wine.

It's definitely because of the sound they make. 

* * *

JJ finds some things are just impossible to ignore.

The stack of seventeen billion files on her desk, for example. She determinedly goes through it as often as she can, and even if she makes a dent, it grows when she isn't looking. It's like they somehow mate and multiply in the dark when no one is around.

The thought makes her cringe.

When Garcia invites herself in, without knocking, JJ barely masks her irritation.

"Come on in..."

Garcia is already talking by this point. She is nervous and going entirely too fast for JJ to make any sense of what she's saying.

"...It's not like I'm doing anything..."

Her friend takes no notice, and continues rambling,

"I _really_ have a lot of work to do, Garcia..." JJ finally says, cutting her off.

But then Garcia tells her how Rossi showed up last night when she was...God...taking a shower with Kevin Lynch. Apparently, Rossi got an eye full as Kevin has no problems walking around in the buff.

Now Garcia's freaking out because she thinks she'll be in trouble for fraternizing with a fellow bureau employee.

JJ just laughs.

"I need your help!"

"With what?" JJ manages, more than a little entertained. "You're not going to get in trouble. Rossi's the reason these fraternization rules exist in the first place."

Finally, Garcia relaxes.

And JJ finds that she does, too. 

* * *

JJ is a sucker for a good accent. Man, woman or child, it doesn't matter. People might assume as much given her husband's sexy New Orleans drawl, but they also might not realize just how far her love extends.

They don't know she goes out of her way to check out at the grocery store with Hamish, the cashier from Scotland. That she spends extra time watching Adele on MTV just to hear her say what she thinks of any given thing, because words just sound so much prettier when you're British. They don't know she spends five extra minutes dropping off Henry at daycare just to listen to the little kids who were just adopted from Haiti, and whose speech sounds like music.

It's one of the best, simplest gifts in the world, honestly, just hearing others talk. She wishes, more often than not, that people would take the time, and just listen to each other.

It's why she makes a point to say hello, when a wave would suffice. 

* * *

There is something so miraculous about hearing the new life inside you, months before you will ever see it. JJ has seen so much through her job, that she is pretty sure nothing can shock her anymore. But that sound - big enough to fill the room - stops her in her tracks.

For the longest time, JJ just listens. She feels a hand in hers and lets her eyes fall closed to better enjoy the moment. She will never have this again - the first moment she hears the heartbeat of her firstborn - so she savors it.

"When did that happen?" she asks, in awe.

"Probably earlier today..." the tech muses.

And JJ smiles, a tear slipping down her cheek. 

* * *

JJ doesn't really get how people can find shopping enjoyable. She is one of those people who gets in, gets what she needs, and leaves as soon as possible.

But shopping with Garcia is a whole different experience. Garcia savors everything. Says, "Don't you just love the grocery store smell?"

JJ hasn't noticed a distinct odor, but Garcia insists it's there. In produce, she selects carefully. Caresses vegetables and fruit with care. She indulges in the free samples and tells stories about times she remembers shopping with her parents as a child.

They go to the bread aisle, even though JJ doesn't need any, just so Garcia can inhale the scent of baking loaves and pastries.

When they leave, Garcia is beaming, and JJ has to admit it... She feels better.

"Wasn't that the best?" Garcia moans and JJ isn't sure if she means the dessert sample or the act of shopping itself.

"Yeah, it was fun," she agrees. And amazingly, she means it. 

* * *

Before JJ had Henry, she wasn't a fan of cribs. They reminded her of cages, and she couldn't shake the feeling that it was mean to put a baby somewhere he couldn't escape from.

Then, of course, she grew up and realized that cribs were a blessing. Cribs kept Henry from destroying his bedroom when he was supposed to be napping but never did. The crib meant he could sprawl out as far as he wanted without kicking her in the jaw in the middle of the night.

Cribs were her saving grace. 

* * *

If people listen between the lines, they will hear what JJ is not saying at a press-conference. But lay people aren't trained in studying behavior like her team is.

Sometimes, not often, she wonders if what she is saying is right. Is it right to mislead people for the greater good, or to tie something up with a neat little bow, when in fact there is paper shredded everywhere, a box torn open and a person discarded like an unwanted gift?

Is it right to stay silent when her son is at home? When she knows he will be in harm's way, because she knows her family's routine like the back of her hand?

She makes the call, phrasing it lightly, like it's a minor concern.

"Keep him home today? I think he might be coming down with something."

JJ hangs up knowing the truth. She broke procedure without breaking procedure at all.

It's all between the lines. 

* * *

JJ has lost track of the hours they have been awake. She can't see straight. Can't think straight to focus on whatever the hell they are currently doing. She can't close her eyes without thinking about the case on the pig farm.

Thinking of shoes now makes her shudder. The image of a hundred or more pairs all lined up - all that remained behind of the victims who once wore them - was enough to make her sick if JJ thinks on it for too long. Instead, she downs coffee, letting it scald the back of her throat and burn a hole in her gut as she tries to focus.

She blinks several times - each time she sees the barrel of the gun that killed their unsub. She and Emily hadn't been quick enough to intervene, and that damn asshole on his damn life support had smiled as the trigger was pulled.

JJ shakes her head again and takes a steadying breath. She needs to focus.

Yesterday, they couldn't save them all.

Today, there is a child who needs her. 

* * *

JJ prays. Hopes. Bargains. Wishes. Does everything she knows to do.

Still, they don't make it.

Still, they have to hear those gunshots over the phone, and know what they surely mean. If they heard them, then Hotch heard them. He knows they'll be too late. There is no saving them.

Right now, JJ hates The Reaper with a visceral hate that she has never felt for anyone else ever. It kind of freaks her out, but she doesn't have time to think about it, because for as long as it takes them to reach the house, it also feels like it takes no time at all.

No time at all until Jack is being put into her arms for safekeeping.

No time at all, for her to know they couldn't save both of them…but the weight of this child in her arms lets her know there is still hope. 

* * *

JJ can't take much more of this. This case is eating her alive.

When she walks to the bedroom of the victim, JJ can't bring herself to go inside. She lingers uncomfortably in the doorway, aware that she has already screwed this up - maybe even beyond repair - by using the word "if" with the family. As in, "if this was a suicide..."

God, she wishes someone had said those same words to her... Then maybe it wouldn't have hurt so much.

She takes a deep breath, forcing herself to calm the hell down. This is a case. It isn't her life. But why, then, does it feel like her life? Why does she remember, as if it happened yesterday, the sound of her parents screaming as they discovered her older sister's body?

Why does she feel cold all over?

Why does she feel like it's happening again? 

* * *

JJ isn't undercover, but she felt like it at the time.

When Janet invited her into her bedroom and asked her to keep a secret. Asked her to be the lookout for their parents, while Janet got high. At the time, it had been thrilling, the tangible feeling of rules being broken, of being invincible with her big sister, of being included.

JJ had been seven - not old enough to really understand what she was seeing - only that Janet wanted her help with something special. JJ had done her job, and remembered feeling so special when neither one of them got caught. She promised, just like Janet said. She promised never to tell their parents.

And she never did.

Four years later, when Janet hung herself in that same bedroom, JJ remembered those broken rules - felt them inside her - slicing her with their truth.

She was the one who promised, who never told…

She was the one to blame. 

* * *

Just because JJ didn't grow up with brothers doesn't mean she doesn't know how to deal with them.

She knows that with Morgan she can be bitchy. That he will be bitchy right back. That he is not afraid of hurting her feelings but she also knows that he is fiercely protective and loyal, and that she can always count on him if she is in trouble. Or if she needs something heavy moved.

She knows that with Reid, she is naturally softer, but also straightforward, because otherwise he won't understand what she means. They can connect about things that she cannot talk about with anyone else. He is like a soul mate. A best friend. A brother that she wouldn't choose because it is so unlikely that they would have the good fortune to be related anyway. But she is grateful, all the same.

With Hotch, she can be vulnerable. He is her soft place to fall. He is like a twin, if she ever had a twin. Because they just get each other. They don't need to talk a lot. They don't need to talk at all. She can be weak around him without feeling weak. She can bear her heart to him and know that he will guard what she has told him carefully and never repeat a word of it. She knows she can trust him, and does trust him with her life. 

* * *

JJ is sometimes so certain her sister, Janet is with her that she could conjure her out of nothing. ...But there are other times, when JJ doubts. She reads a book outside on the patio and when the wind flips the pages, she doesn't feel like Janet is looking after her, she just feels a hollow emptiness inside.

She's not really religious and she's not really _not_ religious. All she knows is that the couple times after her sister's death that JJ tried church, it wasn't helpful or healing.

At first? Yes. But the minute she opened up...told them exactly how Janet died...their faces grew somber. JJ was twelve when she was told that people who committed suicide inevitably went to hell.

The knowledge hurt. Like some piece of her inside withered. It's not that JJ believed herself to be a saint who would automatically go to heaven or wherever good people went. But the finality of it. The certainty of the words cut too deep to be taken back.

Today, those words still hurt.

And today, when the wind blows through her hair, she inexplicably remembers the scent of Janet's Malibu Musk perfume, and feels strangely comforted - like her sister can't possibly be too far off. 

* * *

JJ can't dance. It's just a fact.

"What's the name of that?" Will asks, and she smiles.

"The Dancey Dance..." she offers breathless, picking up a happy Henry.

Will raises his eyebrows. "Okay..."

"Mama, so good!" Henry praises, pressing a wet kiss to her cheek.

"Thanks, buddy..." she laughs. She looks to Will. "You should try it. It's fun."

He shakes his head, backing away. "No thanks, cher, I'd rather not. I gotta go to work anyway. Love you..." he says and hurries away.

"You're missing out!" she calls, and means it. 

* * *

JJ hates it when people are sick. Hate isn't even a strong enough word. She loathes it. Despises it. She can handle almost anything on the job but behind the scenes, she is kind of a wuss. If she is around their sickness, she feels covered in germs, like the hypochondriac fish in Finding Nemo. Yes, she has a 2-year-old at home, give her a break.

All this, and JJ still feels this pull to be there for the sick person, as if she's the polar end of a magnet, and her caretaking makes her an automatic target for anyone who might need a little TLC.

It's for this reason that JJ shows up at home in the middle of the day. Will has had the worst sickness in the world for the past few days. JJ has spent every spare minute sanitizing everything and drinking Echinacea tea so she'll have less chance of inheriting the hideousness. She thinks it also helps that she got a flu shot last fall, while Will insisted he would take his chances.

Will is moaning on the couch. JJ has it on good authority that he has not been able to move. They are lucky that Henry can entertain himself for long stretches of time.

Now, for example, JJ knows she will find him in his bedroom watching Disney's Brother Bear for the two millionth time since Will's gotten sick. JJ's one prayer, in addition to the one that she says every time she goes near Will, asking that she won't have an overwhelming desire to hurl, is that Henry stays healthy.

"Hey," she says, forcing a smile. "I brought soup." 

* * *

There are many kinds of gardens. JJ has seen them.

Vegetable gardens, flower gardens, rock gardens and prayer gardens.

JJ doesn't have any of the above. She has a grief garden. It's her own little spot in the yard where she goes when she needs to think or be sad. It helps a little to have a special place like this to come to.

There's nothing unique about it. Just a private little corner, like all the other corners, except that it isn't. Because this, to her, is sacred space. It's marked by a sign that Will made and stuck in the dirt. It's simple. Wooden. It reads: JJ's Garden.

He never disturbs her out here. He keeps Henry away. No matter when she needs to come out here.

She blinks tears away, and looks up.

"Hey sis..." she says, her throat thick with emotion. "I miss you." 

* * *

JJ fields so many phone calls in any given day it is impossible to keep track of them all. But she knows, as she is on the phone with various officials in her quest to reach someone to grant her access to the Emergency Alert System in LA, that this is her most important.

She is calm. Genial. She explains herself over and over again. Who she is. What she needs.

Time ticks by on the clock. Minutes turn into hours when Billy Flynn has little Ellie Spicer and is doing God-knows-what to her.

This realization is what makes her snap:

"Put someone one the damn phone who can authorize what I need!"

And somehow, that does it.

Somehow, she gets exactly what she asked for.

And sitting in front of a microphone in a dark room, JJ is aware that she also got so much more than she was ever prepared for.

"Billy Flynn?" she asks, and takes a deep breath. 

* * *

JJ blinks back tears.

She hates this damn exit interview. She hates Strauss. She hates that she has to leave, and has no choice. Doesn't it matter that she has done her best work here, no matter what? That she has a home here? That she doesn't want to go?

JJ needs these people and they need her. It isn't right. But she bites her lip, puts the pen to the paper and tries like hell to write through blurry eyes. She writes with a maturity and calm she does not feel, because she knows she'll regret it otherwise.

Then, she carries it with her, as she finds her team, and prepares to leave them.

She remembers Hotch's words. Hopes they are true.

Someday, maybe, she can come back. 

* * *

JJ feels like a beast. Like the most amazing beast in the world. She worked a whole awful stretch of days in DC, came home, read Henry Horton Hatches the Egg before bed, cleaned house and now, she's lounging on the couch with a glass of wine.

She is patting herself on the back until her phone vibrates. She swears if it's work, she is not answering.

But it isn't work. It's the BAU.

"Spencer?" she asks, concerned.

"JJ. We really need you back. Emily's missing." 

* * *

Walking back into the BAU feels good. It feels right. It feels like she should have never left. Though JJ knows the reason she is back is not a good one, she can't deny that she is home now. If they can just bring Emily back, then everything will be as it should be.

"Hey, Spencer," she greets quickly, and he falls into step beside her.

"She just..._left_!" he exclaims, his anger showing clearly on his face. "I let her in! And, like, two hours later she's gone!"

"We'll find her," JJ says, determined, and squeezes his hand.


	6. Chapter 6

"Damn it!" Garcia swore.

It was bad enough having sore feet from the world's most fabulous pair of heels. It was worse to take them off, and be impaled by a random piece of something and then be stuck trying to staunch the blood flowing from the sole of her foot.

This was especially irritating since she had no idea what could have been on her floor that was sharp enough to injure her. And, obviously, she was supposed to be working a case, not doctoring herself.

Quickly, she grabbed some more tissues, wadded them up and haphazardly wrapped the only thing she had copious amounts of - masking tape - around her foot. Because she was nervous about what other dangers might be lurking, she propped both feet on a nearby chair.

"What happened to you?" JJ asked, coming in with lunch and coffee.

"Don't ask," Garcia insisted, not cracking a smile. "And don't take off your shoes."

"I...wasn't planning on it. You want me to fix this for you?" JJ asked, gesturing to Garcia's crudely wrapped foot.

Garcia's expression moved slowly from a frown to a grateful smile. "You wouldn't mind?"

"Of course not."

And with that, JJ was on her knees on the dungeon floor unwrapping, inspecting, and medicating. Garcia kept herself busy, running searches and taking calls.

Before she knew it, JJ was leaving again. This time, she came back with a broom she found who-knew-where. She swept the entire room. Scooted Garcia's rolling chair aside, swept under the desk and amassed a pile Garcia didn't think was possible.

"There. Feel better?" JJ asked, taking the seat previously occupied by Garcia's feet.

"Much." 

* * *

Garcia can't remember the last time she truly let loose. Usually, she just watches Derek bust a move, but not tonight. Tonight, she gets her ass out onto that floor and shakes it. She feels the music. She lets it pulse through her. Dancing alone, she is never self-conscious.

She isn't surprised when Derek grabs her and spins her around.

"Fancy meeting you here," she smiles.

"Didn't know you were such a mover," he tells her, breathless.

"Of course. Always. Took dance forever, growing up..." she manages, moving to the music.

"Really?" he cocks his head, like he's seeing her for the first time.

She smiles.

"There's a lot you don't know about me."

"Ain't it the truth?" he responds and spins her again. 

* * *

Garcia knows when Prentiss finds the guy in the bar that she and JJ will play along. It would be so wrong to let an opportunity like this go to waste.

It just gets better when he's there in the flesh and Emily introduces him as a "real FBI agent". She and JJ pretend to be uber impressed. She asks what it's like at Quantico, but mispronounces it on purpose. The joke will be on this dude and it'll be a damn good one if they can keep a straight face.

When Emily asks to see his badge, Garcia almost loses it. How did she luck out with such brilliant friends?

In the end, they show their badges and the guy slinks away.

Then, of course, JJ's phone rings and their fun is cut short.

On the way out, Garcia looks at the sky full of stars and is grateful for the distraction.

"Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad," she whispers, and gets in her car to drive. 

* * *

Garcia has always hated pop quizzes, and it's pretty impossible not to feel that same dread when she answers the phone the way she usually does and does not hear a voice she is expecting. She closes her eyes, praying that there is some way this can be fixed.

The voices echo in her head. Hers first:

"Talk dirty to me."

And then...

"This is Section Chief Erin Strauss..."

It gives Garcia the creeps even thinking about it. She tries to apologize profusely but nothing works.

After the call, Garcia imagines Strauss opening up an official looking black binder and putting a big zero next to Garcia's name. She vows to be more professional.

At least as long as Strauss is on the case. 

* * *

Garcia is all about this new guy. At least until Morgan unknowingly crushes her with just a few words.

When she gets herself together, she calls him. She'll show Derek exactly how wrong he is about this guy.

James is awesome. Handsome. Charming. He takes her to some swanky out-of-the-way place. They chat. Drink wine.

The night goes fabulously well.

He leans in for a kiss and at the last minute, turns away.

She thinks he's just nervous, but the idea that she can make a guy nervous is kind of titillating. She is already planning Date Number Two and all the ways she will rub this in Derek's face when she hears her amazing date talking to her.

"Hey, Garcia?"

Her heart melts a little.

"I've been thinking about doing this all night."

He pulls out a gun, and before she can react, he pulls the trigger. 

* * *

Garcia is alive. That's all she can think as she slowly blinks her way to consciousness.

It hurts to think. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to be. But she is alive. And that's more than she thought she would have, after... After a bullet tore through her body.

She remembers little. Or tells herself she does. In reality, she remembers shock more than pain. She remembers sitting, not falling, because she was so stunned and honestly didn't feel pain in that moment.

No, that's because the pain was saving itself up for this moment, to torment her. She closes her eyes, wishes it all would go away, but then she hears familiar voices. It is such a welcome sound that Garcia's throat closes with tears.

All this time, she had thought the last face she would see...the last voice she would hear...the last anything she would be around...would be him.

But it's not.

She forces a smile.

"Hey. No tears..." she says. 

* * *

Garcia hates the idea of being alone. But the more she thinks about it the more positive she is that she is destined for a life of solitude. The only time she really had a great time on a date, it ended up that she was with a psycho the entire night. So, what did that say about her judgment?

But then she meets Kevin, and he's like one of those rainbows that appear and end right in her yard or something. He is magic. He is genius. She doesn't know what to make of him. But she is pretty sure she wants to spend a long time figuring it out.

She shakes his hand, and she wonders about her previous assertion that everything happens for a reason.

Did all that hell happen so that she could meet a real man?

But Garcia doesn't waste time wondering. She introduces herself.

"Penelope." 

* * *

"What's the password?" Garcia asks as she hears the first knock on her door.

"What?"

"The password. You're not getting in without it," she insists. It's Rossi. He'll never guess. So she gets Reid to give him some help.

When he utters it, sounding mortified, Garcia cracks the door and offers him the next step.

"Three marshmallow Peeps."

"What the hell is a Peep?"

She shoves the pink and yellow marshmallows into his hand.

"What am I supposed to do with these?"

"Eat them or no access. No Lord of the Rings Festapalooza if you don't follow the requirements."

"Forget it. I don't want to watch anything this badly," Rossi scoffs lightly.

"Oh, come on!" Garcia sighs, determined to win him back. "I'll give you a senior discount! Two Peeps! You only have to eat two!"

"Good night, Garcia..."

"Well, I guess it's you and me," Reid says brightly, balancing a bowl of popcorn on his lap. "Now there's only one question left."

"With commentary or without?" they both ask simultaneously and break into laughter. 

* * *

Garcia hates it when time slows down. And time always slows down when she is waiting for something.

In this case, it's something pretty important. JJ's back in labor and delivery. Maybe giving birth at this very moment, but more likely, she's screaming and in all kinds of agony.

Garcia tries to concentrate on what she brought with her. She's been doing her best to crochet an afghan for this little guy. It's blue and green and yellow and she has messed up on it more times than she can count. It doesn't help that Emily is making her nervous by pacing around, and constantly asking if anyone wants coffee.

Hotch is on the phone.

Garcia thinks of Reid. Sends him good thoughts.

She hopes that the next time they are all together, things look a whole lot brighter. 

* * *

This feels like cheating on a test. But a big test, like the SATs or something.

Garcia is so not a fan of sifting through people's lives like this. It's not what she signed up to do. It's not in her job description, and yet, here she is, surrounded by files and a white board trying to quell her hunger with a banana and trying to find some connection between the residents of one small town.

It sucks.

Hotch doesn't seem to care how this will affect her. Right now, all that matters is the job. So, Garcia decides to be a woman, and get this over with.

Then, she finds something. Something so seriously disturbing that it pisses her off and she gets the team to let them know about it. When all she hears are excuses, Garcia won't stand for them. Excuses won't help the kid they're searching for. Excuses won't magically make the abuse he suffered right.

She talks back to the sheriff. She interrupts Hotch. She needs to get this out. Needs to tell them how wrong this is.

And then she realizes what she's done, and it's like someone has dumped a bucket of cold water over her head. 

* * *

Garcia tries to collect herself. Tries so hard, but it's useless. Every time she closes her eyes, she hears those gunshots. She's never heard anyone die before. She's never been on the phone for a final conversation between someone desperate to get to a loved one before it was too late, and then listened...

She takes her headset off and tosses it. This job sucks sometimes. Seriously. Sucks. And it doesn't help that she's all alone in the darkest part of the building. God knows when the team is coming back. If Hotch will ever come back.

All at once, her heart squeezes in her chest. It's a painful feeling. One she hasn't experienced since the death of her own parents.

She thinks of Jack...and falls apart all over again. 

* * *

Garcia is so not a fan of sitting down with bad guys to chat, but she can see right away that this kid isn't your run of the mill creep. He's just a seriously bummed out high school kid. She thinks, briefly, that Hotch is really good at his job. Because she _does_ get him. She understands turning to an online world when you're lost in grief.

She understands doing things she will probably always regret but can't take back. She remembers trying to drown the pain at bars when she was still underage. Being arrested for egging the very house she grew up in. Her parents' house. Because how dare they leave her?

She understands him.

So, Garcia sits down, and offers him what she can.

Friendship. A smile. And some words that might quell the sadness inside him. 

* * *

Garcia always thinks of her dad when she eats watermelon. It's a bittersweet experience, really, because who doesn't like biting into a juicy slice and spitting seeds as far as they can go? But it sort of hurts, too, because she remembers who taught her to spit those seeds. She remembers warm summer days, and sweet juice running down her chin.

They kind of lost the step, in step-dad a long time ago. Because Garcia has no idea who her biological father is. This is who she's got and she is grateful for it.

Today, when she teaches Henry to spit the seeds, she feels her dad looking on.

She hopes he is proud. 

* * *

Garcia's in a good place mentally. And for the record? She's not a superstitious person.

But. When Kevin Lynch sees fit to open her pink polka-dotted umbrella inside the house, and then breaks a mirror in her bathroom unintentionally, she wonders if maybe she shouldn't take precautions. Like looking both ways for stray black cats before they cross into her path. Checking to make sure nothing is freaky about her car, or her room, or her office at work.

The heat was just out.

Maybe that was a sign.

Now, all of a sudden, Emily is gone, too.

Garcia is worried. And she has made up her mind to kill Kevin.


	7. Chapter 7

Clooney was more than Morgan bargained for. That was just a fact. Who else had a dog that constantly shed? That ran away every single time there was a thunderstorm and caused so many problems that the neighbors complained and now Morgan felt horrible every time the dog looked at him with huge brown eyes.

"It ain't my fault. If you would stop goin' through everybody else's yard, I wouldn't have to do this," Morgan explained, exasperated, as he tied the dog outside, with only enough slack to stay in his own yard.

He watched Clooney give the neighboring house a longing look as the car pulled in the driveway.

"Sorry. No treats. Not unless she comes to you," Morgan insisted. "No begging."

Just like that, Clooney's head hung lower. His tail stopped wagging in eager anticipation.

"Hey. This isn't my fault. It's just the way it's gotta be." Morgan said seriously, scratching behind the dog's ears.

Silence.

"Okay. I gotta go to work. Love you. Be good," Morgan said, and Clooney nuzzled his hand. 

* * *

Morgan is on a roll.

Not many people know that Derek loves to shop, but it's a fact. It's not that he hides it, it's just that there's not too many dudes who think that shopping for a new suit is fun. But there are plenty of ladies who do.

Now, for example, he is strutting his stuff in front of a full-length mirror, in a new purple shirt, a tie and a gray suit jacket with matching slacks. He looks good. Or at least _he_ thinks so until Garcia opens her mouth.

"Lose the suit jacket."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. I can't see your arms in that thing."

So he shrugs out of it, and just for a good measure, rolls up his sleeves.

Garcia grins.

His job is done. 

* * *

For Morgan, nothing was more satisfying than fixing things. When he thought back on all the significant moments in his life, Morgan was instantly aware that he was in his element when he was helping someone else. Sometimes, he took a minute, with no one else around, closed his eyes and remembered.

That time when Garcia's computers got all funky and they spent countless hours in her dungeon of an office figuring what the hell went where and taking tips from her on how to best secure a network from sneaky hackers like Miss Garcia herself.

When he tried to hang around after Garcia was shot by that bastard and she insisted that he go ahead. Nobody else knew that he made a pest of himself, checking in with her countless times that case, just to be sure she was okay.

Countless more instances made their way through Derek's mind. And he couldn't help smiling. For all the darkness he endured, sometimes, he just needed to remind himself of good things.

And Garcia was one of the best. 

* * *

If there is one thing Derek loves it's getting under his teammates' skin a little. He'll go out of his way to antagonize Reid. Totally call Garcia out on some bogus cover she's got going for what's really going on.

But he's had to learn, too, then. If he's gonna dish it out, he's gotta take it.

So when Prentiss and Reid get their geek-factors going and get to talking about phobias. He shouldn't have been surprised when he mentioned hating rodents that he would find a real enough looking rat in his desk drawer to have him fumbling files, and making a totally uncool noise.

All part of the territory. 

* * *

There are things Derek can't stand. One, of course, is a liar. This is ironic, because he is one. But he just can't handle it when relationships end up crappy because the woman isn't honest.

The other one? When the team calls him on his shit. 

* * *

Morgan tries to tell himself it's fine. He can do this. But then Hotch comes in, and tells him that he has a record.

The anger comes quickly, to cover up the hurt. The pain. The awful truth lingering. Buried so deep that Derek hoped it might never be found.

But now they are closer.

Every time Hotch comes back, it's worse. It's bad enough that he's been arrested for murder, but now he has the team going through his life, and that scares the hell out of him.

When Hotch says that name, Derek can't help it, he explodes.

"Damn you, Hotch!"

He knocks boxes over. Does everything he can to convince his team that he is serious. He means this.

Later, when he's alone, he remembers the child he used to be. The one who sat still and let it happen.

He bows his head hoping they'll find out the truth...and hoping like hell that they don't. 

* * *

When Derek remembers the cabin, he remembers being out-of-his-mind-drunk. He remembers feeling fuzzy and tipsy and like his mama will kill him if she ever finds out what he is really letting Carl do to him here.

He keeps quiet because Carl makes sure of it. He twists things around. Makes sure that Derek knows that he won't get anywhere in life without him.

As his hand slides up Derek's leg, and Derek pushes it off, Carl gets pissed.

"You wanna play games?" he hisses, his voice low and scary.

"No, sir," Derek answers, trying to stay aware of what the hell is going on. The "sir" is tacked on automatically, though he has no respect at all for this man.

"Where you gonna get in life if you keep pushing people away? If you keep making these silly accusations? I'm not doing anything anyone else who loves you wouldn't do..."

_It's not true_, Derek thinks, but he can't fight it. 

* * *

Derek has always thought that there are things that separated him from the unsubs they dealt with every day. Then, he came face-to-face with Carl for the first time in years...and he understood how someone could find it in themselves to take a life.

He wouldn't, and he knew that. Still, it was closer than Derek wanted to be to the other side.

All he wanted was some peace.

All he got was a wound ripped open and a wild hope that maybe now other kids would be brave enough to come forward with the truth. 

* * *

Morgan had been ready for this all day. He worked his way through the crowds of people dancing, getting his groove on and enjoying the feel of everyone's eyes on him.

He knew without looking that somewhere in the bar, Emily and Garcia are watching him. There come Hotch and Haley, showing everyone how it's done, or so they say. Reid is at a table doing round after round - not of shots - but Star Trek trivia.

There's a whole lot of beautiful women surrounding him, and yet at this moment, Derek can only think of one.

Where the hell was JJ?

"_Oh_!"

There. Of course. Playing darts with the men. Kicking their asses, too from the sounds of things.

And with that, Morgan let himself relax.

His team was here. He was here.

Everything was as it should have been. 

* * *

Morgan knows that people whisper when they mean to be polite. Today, when he walks into a bar, in the middle of nowhere, with JJ, they don't even bother to whisper. The conversation stops dead.

These people hate him on sight. Because of his ties to the FBI. Because of his color. It's all the same. Hate is hate, Derek knows. He has experienced it often enough. That's both good and bad. It means he knows how to deal with it. And it means he knows that the pain of it never really fades.

JJ has his back, preferring to stand, not taking her eye from the door, just like Derek asked. While he is not confident in a whole hell of a lot, he is confident in his ability to do the job he came to do.

So, he steps up, and starts to speak. 

* * *

The thing Derek likes most about Garcia is that she's unselfconscious. She isn't like so many women, concerned about what they look like, what they eat. Okay, so he is pretty sure she has insecurities, but so does everyone. The point is, he doesn't ever feel weird when they hang out with a huge bowl of popcorn on a movie night.

She doesn't insist on only eating salad, no dressing when they go out to eat. She has meat on her bones, and, if you ask Derek, that's damn sexy.

So is the way she wholeheartedly enjoys herself. They eat pizza, and she groans in pleasure. It always makes him laugh.

It always makes him take a big bite and enjoy it a little extra himself. 

* * *

Derek's been a loser before. Reid doesn't believe it, that much is clear, but he remembers the time like it was yesterday. Being the tiny kid. The butt of all the jokes. He doesn't add that this was also the time that he was being used by that piece of shit, Carl.

He just looks Reid in the eye and says, "Yes, I know what it's like to identify with the bad guy." 

* * *

Morgan knows he has no choice.

So he takes the ambulance. He gets Garcia on the phone. He makes her tell him a place where he can abandon this damn thing with its big-ass bomb, so that more people aren't hurt.

He can hear the stress in her voice, and he tells her that there is something he really wants her to know.

"Save it! Just get out!"

Three minutes.

That was all he had.

The explosion rocks his world.

He gets back on the phone, shaken to his core. That was too damn close.

"You know what you are to me? You're my God-given solace... No matter what happens... Don't you ever stop talking to me."

* * *

Morgan tries to listen to what he knows is true. But that's hard when he isn't sure what truth looks like. What it feels like. All he knows is that he can't shake the need he has of being the one in charge. Hotch calls him out on it, and that stops Derek in his tracks.

He thinks they are just talking about keys, but it seems that, even when he's injured, Hotch never stops doing his job. He calls Derek out for taking the ambulance, for being brave but also reckless and that those are actions of someone who still doesn't truly trust anyone. Hotch says he trusts Derek with his life and asks Derek if he can say the same.

"You still wanna drive?" Hotch asks, but Derek declines.

He'll do what he can to turn over a new leaf. Let someone else have control.

Even if it scares the shit out of him. 

* * *

Soon, he will trust them. Soon, he will forgive. Soon, he will understand. Soon he will sleep through the night, without nightmares invading his subconscious. Soon, he will be sure that every decision he's made has been the right decision. Soon, he will stop doubting himself. Soon, he will look at people without judgment. Soon, he will see the good in the world instead of the evil lurking around each corner. Soon he will believe. Soon, he will remember the boy he used to be. Soon, he will know the man he is becoming. Soon, he will be true to himself. Soon, he will give of himself, not only to protect himself, but because he loves someone else more.

Soon, it will be too late.

So Derek starts now. 

* * *

Morgan never saw it coming. Before he knew it everything was black. When he came to, all that registers is horrendous pain. Going backward through a window will do that to you, he supposed.

He sat, cringing, as glass was removed from his arm. To distract himself, Derek searched, to make sure everything was as it should have been.

But no. Of course it wasn't.

"He took my credentials."

"The important thing is, you're okay."

But Derek knew better.

The important thing was that now this son-of-a-bitch had a piece of him. In the back of his mind, he could still hear a voice that brought the hair up off his arms.

"Wake up, Derek. It's time to die."

But he had been too far away. Too mired in barely-conscious thought and blinding pain to move or even draw a breath.

That had saved his life.

Now, they'd all have to live with the wreckage The Reaper would leave behind. 

* * *

Sometimes Morgan dreams that he walks into the BAU, and everything's fine and dandy. It's a typical day. Reid and Prentiss are down in the bullpen. Garcia is rushing around, but stops. Her mouth drops open.

"What?" Derek wants to know. "Do I have somethin' in my teeth?"

Garcia flushes. "No...I think...the problem would be...what you _don't have_, my love..."

That's when Derek looks down, and sees it. The truth. He came to work in his birthday suit. And while he's pretty damn proud of his body, it's crazy and mortifying and he always wakes up freaking out, sure that it really happened. He checks himself over and that's no good, 'cause he sleeps naked anyway.

And then, from the bed beside him, Clooney snores.

Just that sound is all it takes for Derek to chill out and for reality to set in.

He smiles to himself, and closes his eyes.

After all, there are worse dreams to have.

He ought to know. 

* * *

Morgan hates it when Garcia cries. Especially when he does all he can to help a situation and it doesn't help at all. He hates it when she questions things, but he does his best to listen. To just be there. To offer support where he can.

It hurts him, to be honest. And he hopes she'll stop soon.

"I think I'm gonna stay on this job a little longer," he says, hoping to make her smile.

It works.

Thank God, it works. 

* * *

Derek's honor is a slippery bastard. He has the best of intentions, always. But more often than not, he ends up leaving people hanging. He wants more than anything to be someone others can count on. Someone with integrity. But lately, the only people he isn't disappointing are related to him.

At work, it's stress 24-7. He is constantly stepping on toes. And when he is the one in the hot seat, it gets worse. When Ellie Spicer is taken, in front of his eyes, he swears to her father that he won't let anything happen.

Then? Well... Then, the worst happened. Her father had been shot right in front of all of them. Right in front of Ellie, just like Derek's father had been when he was a kid.

He is short. He has no patience. He snaps at Garcia even though he knows she's doing the best she can.

When Billy Flynn calls him, after he's let her go, Derek doesn't care if he sounds unprofessional.

"What?" he asks, irritated and showing it.

He goes in. They exchange words. Flynn raises his gun, and Derek doesn't flinch. He pulls the trigger not once, but repeatedly.

Outside, it is too bright. And strangely, it feels like there is no happy ending. And then, Ellie's in his arms, wrapped in a blanket.

She's hugging him. Holding on so tight. He holds on, too. He doesn't hear her cry, he feels it, subtle vibration from some deep place inside you when you've lost everything that matters.

And in this moment, Derek is aware that, though he has no children of his own, he is a father. 

* * *

Morgan jerked away at the sight of Reid in a seriously disturbing Halloween mask. He never got the payoff of dressing up in some freaky costume just for a few Baby Ruths and an Almond Joy.

Growing up, Halloween was a time when his house perpetually smelled like autumn. It meant school was already in session. It meant his daddy would bring special jelly-filled voodoo doughnuts, even though Mama always objected. He might not have liked putting on a costume, but there was something so satisfyingly gross as a kid about eating something that oozed.

"Seriously, Reid. Knock it off."

"Hey," Emily said, snapping Morgan out of his memories. "Doughnuts in the break room. I call the chocolates!" Then she was up, quicker than Morgan had ever seen her move, racing down the hall.

Derek smiled. He thought of his father, and the weird thread of happenstance that connected his memories to present day.

He followed at a more leisurely pace, knowing Emily was already laying claim to both chocolate doughnuts in the box.

No one ate the jelly doughnuts but him. 

* * *

Derek has a thing for hands.

He knows most guys are into certain other, more obvious parts of the female anatomy. But he can't get over how beautiful women's hands are. Garcia's hands are always busy. Always active. Her fingers fly over the keys. She adjusts her ring. She breaks a nail. He loves everything about her hands.

Emily's hands have always been a little mannish for Derek's taste, but he finds he's even gotten used to this. He admires the size and shape of Emily's hands. How steady they are. How they don't shake unless she's got a damn good reason for them to.

And JJ... He misses that woman sometimes. All right, more than sometimes. He misses the competent way she handled every single thing thrown at her. How her hands could be infinitely gentle or expertly tough depending on the circumstance - whether she was carrying a child or shooting a gun.

He loves his ladies. And my God, he loves their hands. 

* * *

Morgan can't understand this.

Why the hell wouldn't Emily want them to know that their unsub was after _her_?

And now? Now she's just gone. Vanished into thin air. He just talked to her. Just told her that he'd be there for her. That she could trust him. And she had said she knew that.

If she knows then why the hell wouldn't she let go of her damn pride and let them help?

He blinks back angry tears and clutches the steering wheel. It's not his SUV, because his SUV got shot up full of damn bullet holes by the crazy motherfuckers that probably have Prentiss right this minute.

Morgan slows. Something caught his eye. He backs up and looks again.

There's Emily's car, parked conspicuously and not where it should be at all. With a hand on his gun, Derek gets closer. He looks in the window, and sees her phone on the seat.

He knows in that minute that Emily didn't get taken against her will. She's going to Doyle.

And she left this behind on purpose, for them to find.


	8. Chapter 8

Emily sits alone in Hotch's dark office doing something she rarely does. She prays. She dares to hope. There are only so many things she can blame on coincidence. And things lining up like this, with her having the chance to join the BAU just could not be more perfect. And frankly after her life the past couple of years, she could use a team to back her up. She could use stability.

When Hotch walks in, Emily stands up.

"Please don't tell me you've been there for four days..." he says, sounding defeated.

Emily knows Hotch, at least a little. She likes and respects him. She would give anything to get this job.

And deep down she knows, that if things fall into place like they have a way of doing...Emily might very well have to give up everything. 

* * *

Emily cringes at the picture that Garcia and Reid have somehow found. If that is really her, she looks ridiculous.

"What did you do to it?" she accuses.

"No, Pussycat... That's _you_. And I _hacked_ it. As is," Garcia insists.

Emily flinches. She definitely was not born to be gothic. Not then. Not ever. "Really?" she asks weakly.

"Perhaps you don't remember because of a dissociative fugue suffered in adolescence..." Reid ventures.

Emily's about to tell him she'll show _him_ a dissociative fugue, when Hotch walks in. She quickly puts the picture out of sight.

And breathes a sigh of relief.

The less people who know about that, the better. 

* * *

Emily can't get out of this homeless shelter fast enough. She is right on Reid's ass.

"What was that all about?" she demands.

He gives her some shitty excuse making himself sound in the right, when they both know he isn't.

"What is wrong with you? I've never seen you act like this before!"

"Oh really, Emily? Oh! In the _months_ that you've known me, you've never seen me act this way? No offense, but you don't really know what you're talking about, do you?"

His expression is so smug, she wants to smack it off. But the other half of her wants to crush him to her. Keep him with her. Tell him, yes, in fact, that she _does_ know what she is talking about.

She thinks of Matthew. And just like that there is an emptiness inside her again, just like there always is when she thinks of him.

Sighing, Emily starts after Reid, praying this time, it will be different. 

* * *

She tried to quit.

When Strauss tried to blackmail her and convince her to take Hotch's position, she tried to give it all up. The truth was, Emily was already getting stir-crazy when Hotch showed up at her door saying there was a case. A father using his young son to bait women. Abduct them. Later, he cut out their hearts.

Speaking of Strauss, she's on this case, too. Emily has no respect for her but she can act with the best of them. She says she and Hotch are just here to help. And it's pretty clear in no time flat, that Strauss is not cut out for the BAU, and that's putting it gently.

When things come to a head, Emily volunteers to go in. Strauss balks, but Hotch backs her up. She goes up, knocks on the door, and speaks to the boy. The hair stands up on the backs of her arms as he locks the door behind her.

He says his dad's working. Busy.

"Okay, well, I'm just going to go check and see if he's _too_ busy..." Emily says, creeping down the hall.

She gets to the door. Goes inside. She doesn't see the two-by-four until it's too late. Their unsub cracks her in the head and she's down, her vision blurry.

This is bad.

But Emily's never been one to wait for bad to get worse before she acts. 

* * *

Emily is less than thrilled when the team decides to go investigating the reason for her bad mood on JJ's first day back after maternity leave. Someone, Emily doesn't care who, guesses it's love-related.

Garcia's reading the horoscopes in the paper and asks Reid for her date of birth before Emily can stop her. She doesn't believe in horoscopes, she told them as much right off, but now Garcia's smiling and announcing to the whole room, entirely personal details about an experience last night.

They are full of wit and sarcasm, and Emily doesn't care for it. When they chide her about implementing a warm and affectionate gesture to lift her mood, Emily flips them the bird.

They laugh and so does she.

Suddenly, she is having a much better day. 

* * *

Prentiss doesn't usually drink. But after Matthew, somehow, she can't stop herself. After she stands outside the cathedral in the snow, she finds a bar. No one knows her there and she doesn't know anyone. It's just as well.

She drinks to forget.

She drinks to remember.

Then, she calls a cab. She makes it home.

Though she is exhausted, she cannot sleep. So she pulls out old pictures, and looks at them, while Sergio makes a pest of himself, walking on them.

When her tears drop onto the images. Prentiss shakes her head.

She can't remember when she started crying.

Then again, she can't remember stopping either. 

* * *

Ask anyone and they'll tell you. They're never ready to be hit with something heavy. But they're even less ready to see a teammate in a similar position.

When Emily comes around the corner, and finds JJ, struggling to stay upright after their latest unsub hit her in the head with a shovel, Emily acts quickly to help her. To get her away from the danger.

On the plane, when everyone else is done teasing and exclaiming and fussing over her, Emily sits nearby, but not too close. She's there when JJ starts awake - in pain or confused - to explain what happened as many times as JJ needs to hear it.

Emily knows all too well what it's like to feel lost. 

* * *

"Serge...I swear to God..." Emily swore. It is 5:30 in the morning, and her cat has apparently decided that he is a gymnast. Tumbling on her over and over.

"How did you even get _in_ here?" she wonders.

Thump.

When she gives up - sits up - he bounds off the bed and prances to the door, meowing loudly.

"No treats," she insists. "No way. You've made me very angry."

But there is a spring in his step and Emily knows by the time she gets to the kitchen she will have changed her mind. 

* * *

There is nowhere to go. Nowhere to send a card. No way to commemorate this life lost. There is only an emptiness Emily carries that is always with her, and a consistent inability to conceive that she wants to believe is a blessing but really, has to be a curse.

It's December. It's 24 years since she might have had a child. Held one in her arms. She cannot know exactly when she might have given birth, so she picked a month that felt right.

There is nowhere to go. There are no candles to light. No place to go, to grieve.

Sometimes she dreams she hears a child crying.

This morning, she dreams she hears a child crying.

So, she gets up before the sun. She blows up a single yellow balloon. Ties a string around it, and a note to the string:

_I love you.  
I'm sorry.  
Happy birthday._

Then, she lets it go in the blackness. 

* * *

Emily isn't sure what's worse. Being in this situation, or being in this situation and not being able to tell her team.

She remembers her first day. How Hotch was so hesitant to believe she was a legitimately qualified for the job. The first case she went on, she'd been damn grateful that she had her go bag stowed under the desk, and also that she had a working vocabulary in Arabic. Otherwise, she knew, she wouldn't have had a snowball's chance in hell at getting invited along.

It has been so long since that first day. Since those feelings of insecurity.

But really, not so long at all. 

* * *

Emily is here but she isn't. Her heart pounds in her chest whenever her phone vibrates. She cannot tell her team this. She cannot tell her team anything. Not without putting their lives at risk.

It is the worst place to be. Though she has lived a life on various versions of various truths and never especially planned on being a profiler, that's what happened. Though she hasn't been honest with them about everything, it doesn't mean she doesn't love them.

Because she does. She loves them more than she can explain. They are more of a family to her than her own has ever been.

Reid suspects. He asks who Lauren is. She tells him she was an old friend. She does not tell him the truth.

_I'm here._

* * *

It isn't a story that Emily tells Garcia - the one about the little girl. It's a real, honest-to-God nightmare. She can't sleep, and when she does nod off, this girl haunts her.

That's not to say it isn't a damn convenient way to say goodbye to Garcia. To say, "Thank you for everything." To say, "I love you."

It is.

Garcia takes it. She smiles, though worry shows in her eyes. She is still nervous after Emily's temper flared.

That wasn't fair, Emily knows.

But neither is this. 

* * *

Emily wishes she could say it better. Differently. In some way that will translate the essence of what she really means, rather than just veiled stories. She wishes she could just come out and say it:

"I'm sorry."

"I'll miss you."

"I'm doing this _for_ you. To protect you."

"I love you."

Instead, she surprises Reid at their desks. He actually jumps. For the first time, Emily registers how pale he is. How he squints. She asks if he's okay. He asks the same of her. They observe each other's nervous habits as proof of their lies, when they each assure the other that they are fine.

Then she turns, and walks away, knowing the truth:

There's nothing to admire in a liar. 

* * *

Emily takes extra time - as much as she dares - before walking out the door for good. She wants to commit these faces to memory. To etch them on her heart and that backs of her eyelids, like a roadmap that will always tell her the way home, even if she never comes back from this.

She knows. She'll never come back from this. 

* * *

The night is inky black. All her senses are hyperaware. She sees Doyle but blood is rushing in her ears. She forces herself to take a deep breath. Emily is ready for this. She'll do it, she promises herself.

She'll do anything to save her team. If they don't know anything else, they have to know that.

Emily hopes they know that.

She stares down the barrel of Doyle's gun, armed with her own, and knowing she will not shoot first. It's his intent to make her suffer. And she plans to.

Not to be a martyr...but because that is what family does. If they can do anything to protect those closest to them, they will. This is not how Emily's actual family operated, but she knows this one does.

She hears sirens in the distance...tires squealing...and she wills them away. She forces herself to keep her eyes open. To watch. Because it's what he wants. And she will give him everything he wants.

She sees the flash. The shot is deafening and it tears into her. As she falls to the ground, she prays...not that it will be over quickly, but that they will not find her tonight.

Doyle stands over her and smiles. He pulls the trigger again.

Emily's world goes black. 

* * *

There is a shock that runs through Emily. A jolt. And though she has never been struck by lightening, she is sure it must feel just like this. The sky above her rumbles and flashes. Then only sound gets through.

Then she is not inside herself but above herself watching.

She lies very still. Doyle is there, leaning over her, making sure he's done a thorough job. Thunder cracks, and some part of Emily, whatever this part is hovering, watching everything, hopes like hell that Doyle will get hit, too.

That he does not get away clean. 

* * *

Afterward, Emily watches. She watches and wants and aches. She wishes things could be different. Wishes something could have been different so it wouldn't have needed to end like this. But, even now, she knows that wasn't possible. There were too many of them and not enough of her, and no way in hell that she was going to risk putting those she loved and loves still in harm's way for a lost cause.

She didn't tell them because she knows they wouldn't have given up, not even when the odds were stacked against them. Not even when all of them started losing out, one by one.

She didn't do this _to_ them.

She did this _for_ them.

She hopes they can make that distinction.

She hopes, someday, they'll understand. 


	9. Chapter 9

Reid doesn't know what to think when Lila kisses him. It doesn't line up with anything he's ever felt, or even, happened to read on the subject. It's like sparks. Little fireworks.

And though other things register like they always do - his wet gun, for example - they hardly matter. Even though they cannot escape the reality of the situation. There is a killer out here somewhere, who is after Lila and she seems determined not to let it affect her.

Though it already is affecting her.

Later, in clothes that are not his, they figure out their unsub is an old college roommate of Lila's. When Garcia traces the call, it's coming from inside the house.

So, Reid moves carefully, determined that this will have a happy ending.

Or as close as he can get to happy. 

* * *

Reid gets a lot of grief from the team - especially Derek - for his reluctance to drive. If pressed, Spencer will explain his reservations and how they correlate directly to how many accidents are reported per year. He's not totally confident in his own driving ability...and then, of course, there is everyone else.

Teenagers texting, or on their cell phones behind the wheel. The person who thinks he'll be fine driving home from that party under the influence. And so many more.

So when Derek asks him what the big deal is - tells him to be a big boy and that everyone drives - Spencer stands his ground.

He won't drive if he does not have to. End of story. 

* * *

Reid rolls his eyes, supremely frustrated with himself.

Well, this is what he gets for keeping every single thing that might hold a shred of importance at some later date, but not have a significant filing system. He is on his knees going through sheaves of paper, in search of the purple scarf he wants to wear.

He has already checked the closets, the hangers, and the chair in his room that acts as a catchall for discarded clothes that are officially neither clean nor dirty.

He growls - a strange sound deep in his throat - and glances down.

And he is stunned.

The scarf he has so desperately spent half an hour searching for is tied around his waist haphazardly, like a belt.

He glances around his apartment, now more of a mess than usual. Then, he feels under a pile of mail on the table, finds his credentials and is on his way to the bus.

On the way out the door, Spencer rights the scarf smiling to himself.

All the places it could be, and it was right under his nose. 

* * *

Reid loves few things as much as the long bus ride from home to work each morning. He knows not everyone enjoys the ride. He knows some people just want to get it over with as soon as possible, but sometimes, Reid wishes it could last forever. He loves the simplicity, the predictability and the mosaic of people who ride with him.

Some are the same. The young woman who sits in the same seat every time, behind the driver, next to the window. She listens to her I-Pod and wears a brown leather coat and a scarf with multicolored stripes. It brightens Reid's day every time he sees her. Then there's the father who boards with his son. The boy is still small enough to ride in a stroller, and he has an amazing puff of hair that grows somehow bigger, rather than longer. Sometimes, the baby smiles at Reid. Sometimes, Reid looks away because he doesn't know how to respond. But sometimes, he smiles back.

There are also new people. The homeless man, with the newspapers, who somehow got enough money for fare. The businessman in the suit and tie who looks irritated...

But Reid sighs, satisfied.

It isn't possible to enjoy this anymore than he already does. 

* * *

This is why the darkness scares him. It's not only the inherent absence of light but the way that he becomes absolutely indefinable in the nothingness he is around. He hates feeling lost.

It's why he always packs a flashlight in his go-bag. It's why he always tries to be around others in dangerous situations. Alone is just too risky.

In the haunted house in Ozona, he shivers, wishing he had remembered his promise to himself. Never be alone in the dark. He is talking to Garcia. He can't remember if he called her or vice-versa, but he is glad she is there.

At least until she starts telling him more background than he ever wants to know about the man who lives there, and his missing wife.

"Garcia? Could you at least pretend not to be enjoying this so much since I'm actually in the house?" he asks, swallowing.

She seems unfazed by his fear.

"You're having creepy fun," she says, and there is a strange note of longing in her voice. "I wish I was there!"

"I wish you were, too," he says, but not out loud. 

* * *

There are things Reid just needs. Books. Facts. A case to solve. A challenge. Routine. A connection to his mother.

But there are other things he needs, too. Like, to prove to JJ that he really did let her win that stupid gin game. So, he challenges her to play again and then again, and again until he proves to her - or to himself - that he really cannot lose.

She is patient. She indulges him. But the truth is, he was stung by her proclamation that she would never go see anything sci-fi with him. Had he asked? No. Not technically, and she had just shot it down right there. Then when his guard was down, she laid her cards out.

"Gin!" she'd announced, sounding on the verge of giddy.

And he couldn't be happy for her. Not then. Because along with all the other things Reid needed, there was one more.

He needed to be liked. And in that moment, he felt decidedly pushed aside. 

* * *

Reid has always been a fan of positive thinking. And luck. And this is why he always comes into work with two different socks. It's not like he has normal socks either. Like his mother says, he isn't normal. His idea of the perfect sock combination is one Halloween sock and one Christmas sock.

Ironically no one catches on. No one ever sees his socks except for Tobias's father, when he took them off to beat the sole of one bare foot with a paddle. His theory on luck and positivity didn't hold up in those days.

But most days, it did.

It is his own way of bringing a little light into world. 

* * *

Reid wishes he could just get out of here. This is horrible. A nightmare that he wishes he could wake up from. But so far, no luck. So far, he is still stuck reliving the horrors that unfold in front of his eyes like they are not memories but like they are truly happening.

Tobias sliding the needle into his arm. Raphael making him choose who dies on screen. Tobias's father beating him. Raphael making him choose which member of his team should die.

"I choose...Aaron Hotchner..." he says, the words bitter with regret on his tongue, though he knows he has to do this. It's his only chance to get his team there. It's his only chance to get out.

He is digging his own grave.

He pulls the trigger, but this time he is too late.

Reid wakes up gasping. Fear caught high in his throat.

Just a dream.

Again.

It's just a dream. 

* * *

Reid loves weird things. The weirder the better, actually. So when he finds his Star Trek lunchbox, he knows immediately it's a keeper. And that starts a trend of watching every episode he can get his hands on, and seeing just how much of it he can quote.

It's the best.

He comes to work smiling. Happy. He tries to stump everybody else, but they don't play along much. All except Garcia.

He loves her for that. 

* * *

The problem Reid has, is that he is always engaged with everything around him. People think he has a singular focus, but that isn't true. Actually, he spends a good deal of time sifting through and quickly determining whether or not the hum of the fluorescent lights is as pertinent as their unsubs behavior pattern.

Of course, work always takes priority. It just takes a lot of concentration to constantly be thinking about everything. Sometimes, taking a deep breath helps. Sometimes, it reminds him too much of the feelings that coursed through him when Tobias held him captive.

When he was sure that this would be the last time he would see darkness. Feel cold. Be present.

Take a breath. 

* * *

Reid takes a breath and stands. He isn't ready. But if he waits for that, he's fairly certain he will never be. This is his reality. And if he is not here, among people he can trust, then he knows the alternative.

He thinks of JJ in the parking lot. JJ, who dropped whatever she was doing. Who got up in the middle of the night to make sure he was okay. And wasn't. He isn't and she knows it. She didn't question it. Just drove like he asked. Offered him her hand to squeeze.

Reid sort of wishes he had it right now.

For the longest time, he just stands in front of this group, not speaking. Not because he's being stubborn but because words literally will not come.

But he takes a deep breath, and tries again.

"Hi, I'm Spencer."

"Hello, Spencer…" they chorus back 

* * *

Hypnosis.

It seems fated that Reid is lying on this couch, with a therapist's wrist in his hand that he can squeeze if he feels any fear and Rossi sitting nearby. This case. The memories it's jogging. He can't get rid of it. And he can't shake the feeling that his father is somehow involved.

Her voice is coming through a tunnel. He is relaxed. Then, he's in his room. He's very small. Maybe four. His parents are fighting. He pretends to sleep, but he hears it all. He stares at his shelves full of books. His knight figurines. His Slinky.

"Dad..." he says.

He holds very still, not speaking.

He hears his dad say he loves him.

The words hurt like a physical blow.

"I don't want to be here..." he manages.

But it's okay, because he can go to where the light is. It's the next morning, and he sees his mom at the window, looking out. He stays hidden, because he feels like it's the right thing. But when she moves away, Spencer takes her place. He wants to see.

What he sees takes his breath.

He tenses. Squeezes as hard as he can. He needs to get out of here, but he can't. He can't do anything.

Then, he's awake and he sees Rossi there.

Rossi.

Not his dad.

Not the horrible thing.

Reid grabs for Rossi blindly, trying to anchor himself in what's happening now. He fights for breath. Tries to calm down.

"It's okay. It's okay. It's okay!" Rossi reassures.

But it isn't. 

* * *

When Reid holds Henry for the first time, the weight of a child - a newborn child at that - feels new and awkward in his arms. He is not sure what to do. He is tired. He is scared to death he will do something wrong. But JJ seems confident in his abilities. Moreso than he would be, definitely.

He stares in awe, transfixed and touched and too many emotions to keep track of. Henry is amazing. He has never gotten to study a newborn up close before, and it is fascinating. Henry is such an interesting mix of JJ and Will - such a testament to genetics and fate all at once.

Cautiously, Reid smiles at the baby. He dares not actually take his eyes off of Henry, for fear that something will happen when he isn't looking.

He is captivating. 

* * *

Spencer comes back - probably, more often than he should - to see Amanda and to search for Adam. It's futile and part of him knows it. But the other part remembers Tobias - the real Tobias - when his body wasn't taken over by his father or Raphael. Spencer knows Tobias was a sweet kid who was just so hurt he couldn't take it anymore.

He knows the same is true of Adam. And the tiny part of Spencer that has not given up yet - that's the part continuing to come and sit in on certain counseling sessions - to try and find Adam. To convince Amanda - at once his captor and protector - that it is okay to let him go.

So far, it's no use. But Spencer knows that as long as Adam is still lost, he will keep coming back.

Because, if it were Spencer, he would hope someone would do the same for him. 

* * *

Reid is checking for dust.

The chess pieces. The dollhouse. Various other toys are covered in it, despite the fact that they are available for children to play with. He spies the stuffed animals on a high shelf and takes one down.

"Why are all these toys here?"

The longer Reid speaks, the angrier he becomes. He knows the truth without knowing it. The unsub they are looking for - this man's daughter - was abused and submitted to shock therapy to ensure that she stayed quiet. He took the one thing that meant something to her. Dolls that he had given her as gifts.

Now, years later, this daughter is taking women, and making living dolls for herself. It's horrible and twisted and Reid isn't about to stand here and let this man think he can get away with it.

In the end, he cracks.

In the end, Reid finds the daughter. He speaks to her gently. He gives her back the dolls, telling her she has to go with the police but that her friends - the dolls - can go with her. That no one will take them away again.

He feels sick, yet somehow satisfied. Reid isn't sure how that works, but he's willing to accept it.

For now. 

* * *

Reid knows there has to be some sort of scientific studies about the health benefits of chocolate. He can't think of them right now, but that is fine with him.

It's Valentine's Day, and that means the greatest assortment of Russell Stover's chocolates in the giant red box. JJ buys it every year. This year, Garcia drops it off on her behalf. In addition to something extra.

Reid is busy selecting all the dark chocolates, no matter their filling, when he takes his first sip of Something Extra.

His eyebrows raise in surprise. He scans the note tied the handle with a red ribbon.

_Happy V-Day, Spence. Hot Chocolate's my specialty. Enjoy. You'll never guess the secret ingredient. Love, JJ_

He takes another sip and smirks. Reid doesn't need a discerning palate for this.

Sugar.  
Some higher end brand of cocoa powder.  
Vanilla.  
And a hint of instant coffee.

He sighs, near total contentment and then scribbles his ingredient-guesses to JJ on a small scrap of paper he can mail from the office. At the end, he adds a note:

_The only thing that would make this hot chocolate more amazing would be if you were here to enjoy it with me. Happy Valentine's Day. We miss you. Spencer._

* * *

Strangely, Reid finds that when he plays piano, his headaches subside. Logic would indicate that pounding out notes on a piano would aggravate migraines, but so far, it is the only thing that helps.

He pours himself into learning notes, time signatures, rhythms and chords. He loses himself in pages of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. In the theme Sammy taught him. And when he is desperate, in any cover of any song he can find on the computer.

It is the last thing Reid expects that might grant him some peace.

But it does.

It helps. 

* * *

Lawyers aren't paid to tell the truth. They are paid to tell the best version of events. Right now, Emily reminds Reid of a lawyer, but not in a malicious sense. In a more defeatist sense, because it's obvious she wants to tell someone the truth. And he knows that if she could, she would.

Reid has never been more certain that something is up with Emily. But he can't put his finger on what exactly it is, and it isn't something he can focus on right now, because he needs to work. And he has a headache. And that is never a helpful combination of circumstances.

He concentrates, but he's distracted. He opened up to Emily. Admitted his headaches to her. JJ had suggested it might help if the rest of them knew, and while he couldn't tell them all at once, one at a time wasn't bad.

Emily looked so concerned, but didn't demean him.

She promised not to tell anyone.

Later, she walks out of the BAU...just like everyone else who ever mattered to Spencer.

His dad.

Gideon.

JJ.

It doesn't matter why they leave.

All that matters is that they are gone.

His dad.

Gideon.

JJ.

Now Emily.

He opened himself up to her, and she left him behind. He cannot think of whys. Cannot wrap his brain around what could possibly be so important that she would take herself away from them.

His dad had his reasons.

Gideon couldn't continue.

JJ was forced to go.

Spencer takes a deep breath. He knows Emily has her reasons, too, but it doesn't make her absence hurt any less. 

* * *

Reid wonders, not for the first time, what else will they have to lose? Who else will they lose? Have to give up?

Sometimes, he hates this job.

Still, he takes a deep breath, and dials a familiar number. She'll come back. She'll drop everything. He told her once, that she even prays for this. Sometimes.

Of course, JJ would never pray for these circumstances, no one would. Why _do_ they have to lose one member to gain another back? It isn't fair.

"Hey, Reid."

"Aren't you at work?" he asks, surprised that she has picked up so quickly.

"Yeah, but I'm walking out the door. What's up?"

"JJ. We need you. Emily's missing."

"I'll be right there." 

* * *

Reid cannot stop himself. He cannot help it. For the first time, his emotions are bigger than his intellect.

He found her. Though Morgan had been closer, somehow, it had been Spencer who found her in the vacant lot in the dark with the rain on her face, mixed with blood.

So, he shudders. He breaks. He lets go. The tears are more than he can stand, but he cannot stop them. He wishes he would have paid more attention. Said something. Done something. Spent a little less time being mad at Emily and a little more time figuring out what was happening to her.

Why she felt like she could not come to them with this.

Spencer lays his head down, because he can't do anything else. 

* * *

Reid reclines on the jet, trying to close his eyes. Trying to ignore the stabbing pain in his head. Just his luck that he should forget his sunglasses. Just his luck that there is no way that things are permanently changed.

He tries to soothe the fire in his brain by turning on soft music. His walkman, which makes everyone snicker, has plenty of Beethoven and Bach and nature sounds, but oddly, none bring him comfort.

Then, the seat next to him gives. Reid doesn't bother to open his eyes.

There is a hand in his - JJ's, he knows - and he feels a little better.


	10. Chapter 10

Rossi has never been, and never will be afraid to go out and face the world. He will never hide himself away. Not when there is so much good still here.

When he walks into church, it's obvious. He's home. There's something so reassuring about being here. Not just the familiarity but the sense of peace, the reverence, the holiness about it.

The fact that he can predict with absolute certainty how everything will play out. Nothing changes. Everything is just the same as it's always been.

Rossi genuflects, and takes a seat in the pew, to listen, surrounded by familiar and unfamiliar faces. But all of them at least, have this faith in common. 

* * *

Rossi knows he isn't exactly the kind of man that women line up for. At least not women who _knew_ him. He has a reputation. He falls hard. He's a romantic at heart. So, inevitably, they go out for meals, they talk, they enjoy each other's company.

But then things happen. Marriage happens. And it's good for a while. Or it's terrible from the beginning. And his first marriage pretty much set the tone for the next three. He didn't have a commitment problem, he just had a problem believing he was good enough to stay around.

He hopes to God none of the team profiles that about him. 

* * *

Rossi wasn't here for the Fisher King case, but he hears about it often enough to feel as though he were. Spencer, in particular, seems to make it his personal mission to inform Rossi about every single case that the team worked in his absence.

Sometimes, Rossi imagines it. Sometimes, he can't, even if he tries. Sometimes, he asks himself why he's trying to remember a case like this when he already has enough demons of his own.

There are strange echoes of Elle Greenaway left behind. Nothing tangible, and yet they hang around, like puffs of smoke. What must it have felt like to get sent home only to find the very unsub you're looking for in your house, with a gun leveled at your face? These feelings come up at the oddest times, as if she is a ghost, not a living person.

Sometimes, it's not that at all, but the image that comes, unbidden, to Rossi's mind: the word RULES painted on a wall, in blood. The image of Hotch, showing up there, and scrubbing and repainting that wall, so that no trace of the word remained behind.

He knew the details of the case because of Spencer, but he knew about afterward because Dave knows Hotch. Exactly the kind of man he is. 

* * *

Rossi is rarely flustered. It's just a fact. He hears Emily and Spencer, and Derek in his office analyzing his taupe walls and lack of commendations displayed. Wondering if his renaissance art is authentic. Wondering about his religion. His heritage.

He listens to them say that he doesn't know how to be a team player.

Then, he walks in.

He calls them on every single thing they think they have surmised about him. But he does this calmly, with no hint of malice, because it's only natural to be curious. And because he's a little amused by their assessment, and how involved they have become. How embarrassed they are to be caught.

He turns and walks away.

And they are the ones left speechless. 

* * *

Rossi doesn't understand what the big deal is. So what if he keeps to himself? So what if he takes his own notes? He's with the team, isn't he? He's contributing, isn't he?

The truth is, everything has changed since he had last been here. Namely, people's attitudes toward him. He is like a celebrity around the office. And while that isn't all bad, it's definitely overwhelming and a little distracting.

He can't understand all the changes. A jet. A communications liaison. Files that were almost entirely on computer.

The BAU that he used to be a part of was nothing like this. It was simpler. More solitary.

Less intense.

He opens his notebook and gets down to work. 

* * *

Rossi feels like he's stepped into some sort of alternate world when he speaks with Spencer Reid. This kid is so intense that it kind of makes Rossi's head spin. Half the time, he can't keep up with what the heck he is saying and the other half, Rossi spends feeling like he is missing something obvious just because Spencer takes in so much at once.

At first, he is irritated that they get paired so often together. When he isn't rattling off information, he is asking to discuss certain cases from Rossi's past that "fascinate" Spencer, for reasons beyond Rossi's comprehension. 

* * *

Rossi has experienced deja vu before but never like this.

When he sees the three kids - not kids at all anymore - he has to blink away the images of them that remain trapped in his mind. Images of them covered in blood. Screaming. Crying.

He shakes his head. They are not children anymore. They are grown. And they are angry. For some reason, Rossi hasn't expected this. He expected them to be glad to see him, as he is to see them.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes, glancing at JJ. "I won't bother you kids again."

"And you'll stop it with the gifts, too?"

Rossi goes cold. "I never sent any gifts."

This is news to him. Terrible news.

This means that twenty years after the worst day of their lives, the unsub who killed their parents is not only still out there.

He is watching them. 

* * *

Rossi gets right in Garcia's face. He is done playing games.

"I want to know everything you do on company time!"

He knows he sounds like a hard ass but, damn it, they've got an unsub out there who is not going to stop stalking Garcia until he kills her. The bottom line is, he doesn't want that. So he gets tough.

She insists it's nothing bad, but he makes her tell it anyway. The last thing they need is more nights like tonight when this creep got into Garcia's apartment complex with the intent of finishing her off.

Rossi needs to find the missing piece. He needs to protect his own. 

* * *

Rossi has never been more relieved that he insisted on staying. It takes time for Reid to calm down. Too long. Even when he says he is fine, Rossi can see that he isn't. He's pale. Shaking.

The therapist brings him water and tries to encourage him to talk about what he saw. But he is completely shut down. Just shakes his head no.

But on the way back, when it's just the two of them, Reid volunteers the information to the empty air.

"My dad was burning bloody clothes." He sounds empty, but not dark. Confused, bitter, afraid, and determined.

It sends a shiver down Rossi's back. He had hoped to God that his dad had been right, and Reid just had an over-active imagination.

"Are you okay?" Rossi asks, more to get a measure of where Reid's at in his own head than anything else.

This time, he sighs.

"No." 

* * *

All he had asked for was a clear day, so he could hunt, undisturbed. And that is exactly what he got.

It isn't often that Rossi is able to truly enjoy time off, but every once in a while it drops into his lap, like a gift, and he's worked long enough to understand that it's never a sure thing. The phone can ring at any time, and it probably will.

So, for now, he takes a deep breath. He drinks in the scenery around him. He takes just a minute to appreciate the blue skies, the trees, the water, and even his black lab, who is hyper enough to need Ritalin.

"You're a good boy, aren't you?" he says, patting the dog's head.

Rossi smirks. He is trying, that's for damn sure. The dog's practically quivering with anticipation of the gunshot and the signal to retrieve the bird.

So, he aims and fires, a perfect shot, and watches the dog take off.

Rossi takes a deep breath.

There really is nothing better than a little time away. 

* * *

Rossi walks around the muddy ground with Prentiss. He tells her the story that The Exorcist is based on. He waits. Then he tells her he is here if she wants to talk. If she doesn't he is fine with that, but if she wants to tell him anything, he is here. He is ready to listen.

He doesn't really expect her to tell him anything. Most of the rest of them might. It would be too irresistible to them that David Rossi took an interest in them, but Prentiss carries her grief differently. She wears it. She doesn't seem to want to share it.

But when she opens her mouth, he keeps his promise.

He listens. 

* * *

Rossi's thoughts are his own worst enemy sometimes. They trap him with their insistence that he should have done this differently or not done that quite so forcefully.

Sometimes, he can't sleep. Sometimes, it's all he can do.

Sometimes, he wonders what exactly has become of his life that he is alone right now. He could have a family, but chose not to? He could surround himself with people who care for him, but there aren't many of those.

Only his team. He counts on them, probably more than he should.

But the truth is, after just a few years, they have become his family.

They hold the key to unlocking those thoughts. 

* * *

Rossi didn't go undercover for a reason: the risk was too high. He wasn't just speculating. He knew from experience. There was nothing worse than making headway in a case and then being found out and being beaten within an inch of your life.

That was probably why he chose this line of work. And later, writing books. No one could try to kill you for that.

Or so he thought, until he turned his back on Professor Rothchild and heard the man scream like the disturbed individual he was, and tried to take Rossi down.

But if his earlier experience taught him anything, it was to always be prepared.

And when he slammed this perp against the glass and told him how it was, it felt damn good to know the truth.

That this time, he had the upper hand. 

* * *

The definition of insanity is as follows: to do the same thing over and over, and expecting different results.

If this is true, aren't they all insane? How many more of their own will they wake and bury? How many more will they have to lose? How many more will they go through these motions with? Lay to rest?

In the church, Rossi crosses himself, and thinks of the faith Emily had, and lost. He thinks of the baby from so many years ago. He prays that now she and the child have found each other...and that perhaps...they have some measure of peace.

If nothing else, then please, God, give them that.

Give them something.

Tears fall.

Everything's the same.

And everything is different. 


End file.
